Dawn Will Come
by adriannewhitt
Summary: Taranari Lavellan had a dark and lonely past, filled with lives half-lived, and those who would take advantage of her. It wasn't until she joined the Inquisition that she finally began to belong. But when Haven is destroyed, everything is thrown out of balance and suddenly her Commander represents something she doesn't want to remember. Lots of off-canon and angst. Hawke subplot.
1. Unsettled

**Oh yes, another Cullen and Inquisitor romance. If you're here, you already know you love it or you think you might love it and need more convincing; either way, I hope this is the story for you! But fair warning, there's lots of off canon, especially with my Inquisitor's backstory, and it's rated M for a reason.**

**Disclaimer: silly Bioware doesn't need us all to declare we don't own their characters, but we do it anyway!**

**Hope you enjoy and you're avidly playing and replaying as I am!**

**Edit: It's rated M because of sexual assault that occurred prior to the story's opening, which is not and will not be described in detail (beyond some Cole-type dialogue) but is a plot point and is discussed fairly frequently. I just want to make that clear. However, I will flag all chapters that discuss it in any detail, if there are those of you who would like to read this story, but feel that it may be a trigger for you in any way. Alternatively, you can PM me and I will send you edited versions of the chapters if you'd prefer. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable or feel like they're missing out, so please don't hesitate to contact me!**

**Ok, that's all, back to the story :)**

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Chapter 1 – Unsettled

"Holy mackerel," she said, sliding her thinly gloved palm up the side of the stone wall. "This place is…" From a distance, she'd been stunned by the fortress Solas led them to, but up close, it was even more awe inspiring, and daunting.

Because she knew what came next, the shoes she'd be asked to fill once their new home was claimed. It had only been a matter of time, and it intimidated her immensely.

"Nice job, Baldy," Varric said appreciatively, giving Solas a rough pat on the back.

"I did not think it possible," Cassandra agreed, staring up in wonder at Skyhold's thick stone battlements and soaring watch towers. "It's perfect."

Tara looked over her shoulder at the giant bridge they'd just crossed to get to the hold's main gates. "Corypheus certainly won't be sneaking up on us again," she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

"He has a dragon, Herald," Solas pointed out.

"Way to ruin the moment."

The bald mage raised the corner of his mouth slightly, turning away from her to resume his efforts to help Varric open the keep's gates, and she sighed. While they were similar in race, and possibly humor, she had done far more to offend the man than to earn his trust in the past weeks, extolling the virtues of the Dalish, without really knowing anything about them, bemoaning that she had only been with a clan a handful of months and had never been marked with the blood writing that characterized those she considered _her people… _He'd backed down soon enough during that spat, having accepted her apologies graciously, but Tara couldn't shake the feeling that he was disappointed in her. It made the back of her neck itch when she looked at him.

In reality, she was no more Dalish than he was. She was born Dalish, yes, but after they abandoned her… Well, she had spent much more time with humans than elves, and, despite her ideas about the traditionalists of her race, she had never been very "elfy," as Sera would say. Returning to the Dalish had been an act of desperation, one that never made her feel right or at home, orphan that she was.

Still, the ideal of being Dalish, she clung to. It was the only thing she could claim as heritage, the closest thing she had to family.

She hoped Solas had understood her reasons, as little as she'd explained them to him. She didn't like feeling like she was being judged for trying to be proud of her race; she and Sera had been through similar struggles on the subject. Regardless of the fact the only real thing that tied her to them were her pointed ears.

"Herald!" Commander Cullen came galloping up on one of Dennet's steeds, gold hair shining in the cold morning sun. As he crossed the bridge, a few soldiers in tow on mounts of their own, the fur coat he wore over his heavy plate armor billowed behind him magnificently in the wind. Tara chuckled a little at the sight; she was almost certain he wore that thing for the damn effect.

"Commander! To what do I owe the pleasure?" she called casually, attempting to make light of the entrance, though she sensed trouble.

Cullen pulled his horse to a stop right in front of her, leaning down and reaching a hand out to help her onto the back of his steed as he spoke. "A rift appeared right in the caravan's path and it's spitting rage demons. We need you to close it before we're overtaken." She took his hand, placing her boot in the stirrup he'd vacated for the moment, and swung easily into the saddle behind him. It was only once she was there, that she realized what close proximity that would put them in, and her throat constricted.

She hadn't been that close to a man, any man, especially a human, _especially _a Templar, in years. She gulped down her nerves, meeting Cassandra's eyes, which had a knowing sheen. Tara had told her a little about her rocky past, and she seemed to recognize the elf's discomfort.

"You three stay here and get that door open. I'm sure you can handle whatever scavengers may be lurking inside, but stick to the first level if you can so I can find you when I return with the others." The orders came naturally to her now, not like they had when she'd first joined the Inquisition; then it had been maddening trying to find the right words, the right balance between comrade and commander, as the mark on her hand made her Commander and Chief of the 'Close the Maker Forsaken Rifts and Find Out What The Hell Happened' Brigade.

She admitted to herself she'd looked to the man whose back she was now pressed against in the saddle several times as an example as she made that transition; he'd always seemed like such a natural to Tara. Now she realized that he'd probably grown into the role the same way she had, not that the superior smirk he was always throwing at her hinted at any such learning curve.

"Hold on," he said briskly to her, as he nudged his heels into the horse's sides, making her start forward. Tara wrapped her arms around his armored waist, reminding herself repeatedly of who he was, why she was there, what he wanted from her. It did nothing to lessen the pounding of her heart at having her legs wrapped around his own, in whatever capacity.

Cullen urged the horse into a gallop, making them jar against each other uncomfortably, the edges of his armor digging into her at each uneven point of the path. She actually welcomed the feeling, knowing it distanced the current situation from the memory that made her body tense and her skin crawl, though not enough to put her ease.

It was with relief that she bounded off the horse, the green gash on her hand sparking uncomfortably as she trotted towards its larger counterpart.

The rift wasn't very large, but it was just off the main path, a sickening tear in the fabric of their world, festering with green light like that of the anchor. And the Commander had not been lying about the demons. Her companions who had remained with the Haven caravan were scattered in between groups of soldiers, attempting to fend off the rage demons spewing from the rip in the Fade.

Since her people were keeping the demons occupied, she went straight for the rift, dodging groups of soldiers and a few injured until she stood directly beneath the glowing mass. Summoning on the force she still didn't understand, she raised her marked hand and pushed out with her mind toward the break, imagining it being shoved closed from all sides. Tara closed her eyes, focusing, feeling the energy surge out from the anchor to the chaos of the rift, concentrating on shrinking that chaos until it was nothing but a miniscule scar on the face of the Fade.

When she opened her eyes, the rift was gone, and, weakened, the demons were quickly dealt with.

"Good work!" Cullen trotted towards her, smiling that golden boy smile of his.

She waved him off, her body still reacting warily after the ride over, despite that sense told it otherwise. "That was a little one."

"_That _was a little one?" the Commander repeated, not looking convinced. "It was half the size of the Breach!"

"Trust me," she chuckled, running a shaky hand through her deep red hair.

_Don't you trust me, Tara? _Hollith's words echoed back in her head, and she winced at the connection. She hadn't been affected like this in a long time; why now?

Cullen's mouth quirked in that lopsided smirk she'd come to recognize as his trademark, and he dismissed himself to check on the wounded.

Tara watched him go, confusion and fear swimming through her usually solid determination. This could _not _become a problem again. Not now.


	2. Memories

**Hey you, it's chapter two! Please let me know what you think and of course, enjoy! :)**

**Edit: I've been asked to put up warnings before chapters that discuss Tara's sexual assault, so WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT DISCUSSED. Hope that's helpful :)**

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Chapter 2 – Memories

"His bloodshot eyes, quiet keening, Templar armor, hand pressed over your mouth to stop the scr—"

"Cole," she interrupted. "Please." The word begged his silence, his understanding. Her mind was already torturing her with the images, she didn't need them described aloud as well.

They were perched on a section of the battlements, having finally finished moving everyone and everything into the keep. Cole had been making everyone but Tara forget he was helping; she told him that was okay for now. She knew there would be an argument with Vivienne later, once he began revealing himself. The mage didn't know he'd followed them to Skyhold, and Tara was certain she'd be as disapproving now as she was when they first encountered him.

But Tara would not refuse his help or companionship if it was being freely offered, and he'd given her no reasons not to trust him. In fact, she rather liked him; he reminded her of herself – always straddling two worlds, never sure what he was or where he belonged, but still trying to help people. If only she'd known him then…

"You relive it… Why?" he asked, meeting her with those depthless eyes of his, staring down inside her in a way that made her shiver. He appeared almost like an average adolescent boy in an oversized hat, except for the haunting glaze to his irises.

Tara looked at him sadly. "I… It…" She didn't know how to explain it to him, why it haunted her, why her pain was so prevalent again. It _had _been years. She'd already been through the screwed up part, the haunted part, the part where she couldn't be touched and she barely spoke and she spent hours lying on the chantry floor praying for the Maker to let her speak to her mother again. That was supposed to be over now; she'd chosen a new life, chosen to move past the darkness and live again. But then the Commander made her _remember him._

"Golden hair, solemn, shield angled downward, the word catches in your throat as he turns, _Templar_… Cullen? You're afraid of Cullen?" Cole pulled the images out of her mind easily, hardly even knowing he was doing it.

Tara thought that was probably the easiest way for them to communicate anyway, since she could no more describe her feelings to him than he could understand her words. Perhaps the feelings themselves were clearer if he experienced them himself.

She focused on the last week, when the Commander pulled her onto his horse, mentally pushing the image towards Cole.

"The smell of horseflesh and boot polish. How does he always stay so clean? Foot almost catches when you swing it over, his hand wrapped around your forearm. Suddenly, too close, legs wrapped around him pressed against, and his earthy, metallic scent is almost overpowering. Usually it reminds you of home, but now, too much, too much. Can't breathe. He's in your head again. The pain from before and… I understand now," Cole said. "He reminds you of the Templar who hurt you."

"Sometimes," she sighed, rolling her neck tiredly. "But I don't want him to. I know that he's different. Better."

"How do you know?"

She looked at him curiously. Was he testing her? "He has sincere eyes."

Cole nodded as if that explained everything.

"And he feeds stray dogs."

"Hollith _never _fed stray dogs," Cole agreed, having plucked the name out of her mind along with the memory of her attacker. It made her pointed ears twitch nervously to hear it again. "I could make you forget him. Then you wouldn't be afraid of Cullen and it wouldn't hurt you."

The offer was tempting, Tara had to admit. To have her demons erased… to be free to be happy again… Maker was that _really _the offer a spirit of compassion would make her? Because it was far more torture than compassion, knowing she could never accept such an offer.

"Ah, no, this is my burden, and it's important for me to…"

She stopped when she heard the booted footfalls climbing the stairs behind them.

"Herald," Cassandra said, rounding the corner with an eager intensity on her face.

_Here it comes, _Tara thought, preparing herself. She'd had a feeling for a while that they were planning to make her leadership more official. And, while it was not in her power to refuse, she'd been hoping for more time.

"We need you for a... important meeting." The dark haired Seeker smiled mischievously, turning around and motioning for Tara to follow.

_Maker, she's a terrible liar._

Tara shot a look at Cole, knowing full well that he hadn't let Cassandra see him. He shrugged, getting up to follow her down the steps, feet soundless on the stone.

When Tara got to the bottom, he'd disappeared.

* * *

"Inquisitor," Cullen said, nodding in greeting without looking up from his paperwork. He hadn't really looked at her since their little ceremony, naming her Inquisitor. She didn't know why that bothered her.

"Commander."

Tara set her back against the door, crossing her arms casually. She was content to wait for his attention.

After several long minutes, he laid down the report he'd been writing and fixed his warm eyes on her. "Is there something I can do for you?" he seemed slightly bemused by her presence, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Since her conversation with Cole, she'd come to the conclusion that it was unacceptable that she was still being plagued by Hollith's betrayal. _How _was she supposed to save all of Thedas from a darkspawn, magister hybrid, if she couldn't ride on a horse with a man (who she actually respected and maybe even trusted) without getting the willies?

_By facing your fears, _she answered herself, meeting the Commander's golden eyes with care and purpose. "Yes." The tone she began with was fairly light-hearted, but she worried he could sense the tension behind it. The last thing she needed was for him to realize why she stiffened when he came near; no good could come of that discovery. "Varric has requested that I tell you to 'stop working so sodding hard, and come have a round with him.'"

He raised an inquiring eyebrow, smirk sliding into place. "Oh? I wasn't aware you'd taken on the role of Varric's messenger."

Her face flushed. "Well, I…" she began, embarrassed that she'd come there with such a shoddy reason. "I thought I'd join you," she offered, trying to stifle the blush that was quickly spreading to her neck.

_Nice save, imbecile. _She hadn't had any intention of joining them. She was trying to ease into this, whatever she intended this to be, not give herself an incredibly uncomfortable afternoon and a bout of nightmares.

"Now that _is _tempting," he murmured, smiling almost to himself, realizing too late what he'd said.

It was his turn to blush.

"Why, Commander, I didn't know you were such a shameless flirt," she teased.

He smirked at her abashedly, an embarrassed chuckle forcing its way out. "I assure you—"

"Commander!" One of his soldiers interrupted, barging through the left side door, slamming it into the far wall.

"Yes?" Cullen looked slightly annoyed at being cut off, although that fell away quickly when he saw the urgency on the other man's face.

"There's a situation in the courtyard." Cullen was immediately on his feet. "And we can't find the Inquis—"

"Present," Tara piped up.

The soldier jumped, turning towards her. "The, er, spirit that brought the Grand Chancellor—"

"Ah," she nodded, "I was wondering when we'd have this fight." A tired sigh escaped her lips, as she turned to open the door she'd been leaning on. "No rest for the wicked," she mumbled, stepping out into the dank afternoon air.

Hearing the Commander's footfalls rounding his desk to follow her made her body tense. He still moved like a Templar, purposefully, quietly. His stride commanded attention and respect, but was vastly different from the brash march of a soldier or the confident lilt of a noble. They held their power in a different place.

Hollith had the same air about him, the same step, and it unnerved her hearing it again approaching from behind.

"No need to accompany me, Commander," she said too quickly, whipping back around to face him.

_He's not here. He's not here. He's not here, _she told herself, urging her heart to calm. _Look at his eyes._

Her body slowly responded to the order, sliding up from the chest plate of Cullen's armor to the warm amber of his eyes, thinly lined in confusion and concern.

_Sincere, _she concluded, for the umpteenth time, more a reminder than anything that he was a very different man from the one who hurt her.

"I…" She recognized his uncertainty, though his voice quickly grew confident. "It is no trouble, Inquisitor." He waved off what he'd seen as she stared back at him, the fear she was certain he'd caught, and led the way from his office.


	3. Interruptions

**Thank you to those who reviewed! I appreciate your support and will be getting back to you all personally. I've just been so preoccupied writing this chapter, I haven't wanted to divide my attention! ;)**

**Hope you all enjoy it! I would love to hear from more of you.**

**PS: I need a cover image for this story, so if anyone has or has seen anything OR would be willing to draw something to accompany it, I would be over the moon!**

**Edit: I've been asked to put up warnings before chapters that discuss Tara's sexual assault, so WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT DISCUSSED. Hope that's helpful :)**

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Chapter 3 – Interruptions

"You let it stay?!"

Tara practically jumped out of her skin, not having heard the door to the war room open, and therefore not expecting the snarling elf in her ear.

"By the Black City, Sera! You scared the shit out of me!" she exclaimed, putting a hand over her hammering heart.

"Because _IT'S _hanging about my room!" the elven archer fired back, looking more disturbed than Tara had seen her in a while.

The new Inquisitor had been trying to get some work done, to coordinate the Inquisition's spheres of influence and troop movements before she set off for the Exalted Plains. It hadn't been going well before the interruption – she'd been moving pawns around for an hour in an utter haze, unable to focus. Then, with Sera having a hissy fit that could take any number of hours to decipher, Tara knew it was utterly hopeless.

She sank to the floor, her back to the war table, exhausted.

"Explain," Tara commanded, eyes closed. She'd just returned from Crestwood the previous afternoon, having worked for over a week to clear the area of undead, deal with the rift that had sprung up in the middle of the lake, and find Hawke's Warden contact.

"It. Is. Frigging. Creepy."

"What is?"

"_It."_

She opened her eyes, fixing a furiously tired look on Sera. "_What?" _she asked, voice pure ice.

Sera crossed her arms and began mumbling under her breath, "Maferath's hairy arse this knife eared bitch with her fancy sodding title making me work with a bunch of bigtits and a creepy as shite demon kid—"

"Cole? This is about Cole?" Tara interrupted, venom still laced through her voice. When she set off in search of the Warden, she'd elected to bring the strange boy with her, trying to avoid further conflict in her absence. Apparently, Sera hadn't realized that he was still working with them, until the group returned.

"It's not a person. It doesn't get a name."

Tara sighed, watching the blond elf twist her fingers in the way she'd come to recognize meant she was scared. "Sera, he helped us escape Haven with our lives, and he's been nothing but kind and helpful since then. Whether you think he's a person or not, isn't it enough that he's on our side?"

"But it's a _demon, _innit? Fade shit can't leave the Fade without getting demonfied. That's what prickle bitch said." Tara had come to understand that when Sera said 'prickle bitch' she was referring to either Cassandra or Vivienne; considering the subject matter, she assumed this time it was Vivienne. "So it can't be on our side, cause demons are only evil, so it's on Corypatuss's side. Which means we kill it."

Tara placed a hand over her face exasperatedly. "You can't kill Cole, Sera."

The other elf looked aghast. "_I _don't want to kill it! What if it possesses me?!" Her face brightened as another thought occurred to her. "I want _you_ to kill it with your epic Herald hand thingy!"

"We talked about this. The anchor can't be weaponi—"

"But it sucks up demons, right? That's what we need!" Tara was getting increasingly frustrated with her elven companion.

"It only did that _once, _and I was—"

"Inquisitor!" the door to the war room was flung against the far wall, as the out of breath messenger barged in.

"WHAT?" Tara roared, having found that she was at her breaking point.

The man, dressed in the garb of Leliana's scouts, flinched back through the door frame, retreating as he conveyed the message. "Crestwood's former Mayor was just brought in and has been placed in the dungeons. Ambassador Montilyet needs you to sit in judgment."

The man turned and walked quickly from the slowly shutting door to the war room. "And that couldn't _wait?" _Tara hollered after him, watching the man jump and increase his pace.

She sighed, certain Josephine had heard her outburst from her office.

She was actually impressed with how fast Mayor Dedrick had been apprehended. She'd sent word back to Skyhold after discovering his absence, and in turn, his guilt, since she'd needed several more days to find the Warden, but she had not expected such a swift response from Leliana's network.

"Is that that the blighted arse biscuit who flooded that town full of people?" Sera asked, a scowl darkening her features.

Tara stood, brushing off the Orlesian tunic Joesphine had given her. The woman had practically designed a whole new wardrobe for the elf, after all of her belongings were destroyed in Haven. Thankfully, everything was fairly practical, if a little too flashy, so Tara put up with most of it. That day, she was wearing one of her favorite outfits – a deep green tunic with an embroidered belt and black wool leggings with her leather hunting boots. The green was striking with her red hair, and the outfit usually made her feel beautiful and powerful, but she was too worn to enjoy it that day.

"Yes," she finally answered Sera, watching as the woman clenched her fists and stomped from the room, muttering curses under her breath, and something about "teaching him to mess with little people."

_That'll be trouble, _Tara thought, making a mental note to talk to Sera again later, and maybe even ask Cullen to send extra guards to the dungeon, when her head wasn't pounding so insistently.

For the moment, she needed a nice, long nap.

She managed to make it to her quarters mostly unhindered, though Josephine tried to elicit her into conversation on her way through her office. Tara had waved one hand, a motion universally known to mean "not now", placing the other over her splitting headache in a half apology.

_Maker, when was the last time I slept? _She thought, scurrying through Skyhold's main hall, ignoring Varric's ill-timed joke about her haggard appearance, and the way Solas's eyes burned into her as she passed him, as if he knew more about her than she would ever want him to.

Finally, she was able to collapse on top of her too plush bed, not even bothering to drag the blankets over top of her before falling asleep.

* * *

She dreamt of Therinfal Redoubt.

She _always_ dreamt of Therinfal Redoubt.

She had never been there of course – she'd chosen to seek out the mages instead, intimidated by what the Templars represented to her personally, while also hoping the rebel mages could give some insight into what happened to her as a child, why the elves had chosen to abandon her.

That they couldn't help her was not really a surprise; no one had ever been able to pinpoint the cause of her unconventionally sudden magical ability – the kind that turned a childhood nightmare into a fire that killed her mother, and disappeared almost as suddenly as it came.

Still, the disappointment of yet another dead end made what had occurred at Therinfal Redoubt, while she was in Redcliffe dealing with the mages, weigh on her even more heavily. Cole had relayed the events to her, as best he could, as his dealings with the Envy demon that was masquerading as the Lord Seeker were not direct. It had known he was there, trying to help the Templars get away or put those who couldn't at peace, but Cole primarily avoided it, unsure what would happen if he was caught. "I don't want to be like that. I told it once that it didn't have to be. It could go back, like I did. But it got angry. Attacked, tried to make me be like it," Cole had told her. "I stopped helping it after that."

"But you helped the Templars? Did any of them make it out? Could they be brought here?" she'd asked. She longed for survivors to right the ache in her chest at having damned so many to a red lyrium induced fate.

"No, all of them were turned. I couldn't help them." There were tears in his eyes when he said that. They fuelled the guilt in her stomach at her unfair distrust of Templars.

And now every time she closed her eyes, she dreamed of their deaths – the ones who refused to accept what was going on being slaughtered, their heads placed on pikes in the courtyard, and the ones who'd been tricked or pressured into taking the new lyrium turning into monsters, losing themselves, their humanity. At first she was a passive observer like always, but her grief for their loss this time pushed her into the scene, and suddenly she stood before the Lord Seeker in the keep's main hall, his eyes glowing a demonic green, matching the color of her mark.

"You killed us," he said, baring his blade at her. "This is _your_ fault!"

"No," she begged, tears making her vision blur. "No, I didn't know. I would've helped you too!"

"Liar!" Suddenly, his voice was no longer of one man, but many, layered together, speaking in unison. "We see your heart, your love, your _hate. _You hate us for one man's betrayal."

"I don't… I don't ha—"

"Would you even save _him?"_ The many dead Templars asked, gathering around her, their eyes all a glowing green. "We know how you respect him, how your heart races when he's near." The crowd of dead men parted to reveal the Commander, lying in a pool of blood in the dirt, struggling to stand. "Would you let him die?"

She watched as he drew to his knees, revealing a broken arrow shaft protruding from a gap in the armor at his shoulder. "Cullen," she whispered, surprised by her pain at seeing him hurt.

"Inquisitor?" he groaned, clutching his wounded shoulder and standing unsteadily. He'd been bashed in the head as well, the blood darkening his golden hair and running into his right eye.

"Just… hold on." She tried to make her way towards him but the path closed, and suddenly she was staring into the glowing eyes of the Lord Seeker once again.

"You would go to him?" His head tilted to the side in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck raise.

She scowled at having her way blocked, the ever changing nature of the her jaunts in the Fade frustrating her immensely. "I would save him!" she snarled.

"But what about _me_?" a voice came from behind her, a voice that sickened her soul. She spun around to meet with its owner.

"Hollith." Her voice was filled with disgust.

His dark eyes crinkled, and she realized he was smiling. "Hello, Taranari." His grin was dangerous, like a coiled snake. His eyes traced her hungrily, and she shivered, reminded of the night he took what he wanted.

"Get out of my head." She glared at him, imagining his disintegration, the satisfaction it would bring. She was surprised when she realized she felt no fear, only anger. "I'm not afraid of you anymore," she said, more to herself than to him.

"I love it when you put on a brave face," he replied, sauntering towards her, the Templar emblem on his chest plate flashing in the light. She stiffened when he reached out a hand and ran it across her cheek like he had once before. "It only makes it sweeter when I _break you_," he whispered, as if it was some intimate secret between them. He talked about raping her the way someone might tell her they loved her.

_That, _more than anything, made her stomach turn. She almost smiled at the realization, at what she saw in him now. "You're nothing," she told him, shaking her head sadly. "And you can't break me, not anymore."

She turned to walk away from him, back to where Cullen had been, but he grabbed her wrist. She looked back to find the Commander's gauntleted hand, rather than Hollith's, wrapped around her forearm, stopping her from leaving, just like he had done the other day.

"What happened in Haven…" They were the same words from that day as well, a memory. "You could have died. I shouldn't have let you go," he said softly, looking like he was fighting shame from reaching his face.

She replied like she had before. "You couldn't have stopped me. I wanted you to let me go."

He pulled her closer, looking into her eyes with an intensity that was almost inappropriate when they were standing in the courtyard. "But _I didn't_." There was a great significance in those words, and Tara was just beginning to grasp what that was.

But as soon she saw it, it had been replaced by something else, a cold civility speaking of self-reproach. He dropped her arm like it had burned him, recoiling from her. "I promise you, that won't happen again," he said stiffly, turning away.

"Now do you understand?" the collective Templar voices asked, their faces reappearing around her.

"I already knew Cullen was different," she said, confused.

A collective grimace. "You know nothing."

Then, she woke up, shivering atop her freezing bed with the evening light fading through her open windows.


	4. Firelight

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**As for this chapter, it includes a lot of Elvish, which can be deciphered by going to the wiki page on the Elven language if you wanna have a little fun puzzling through it, or by scrolling to the bottom where I've included the rough translations.**

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Chapter 4 – Firelight

"Era seranna ma, Keeper. Ar andaran atish'an. Emma Taranari Lavellan in an Free Marches." Tara had a friendly, relaxed smile on her face as she approached the Keeper, though her insides were churning. She'd never approached another Dalish clan before, and without the Vallaslin, she was unsure she would pass as one of the Elvhen. She barely knew any Elvish, and had spent almost all of it on her first sentence. And, to top it all off, she'd left her companions on an adjacent hill while she went to meet the Keeper alone, making her feel all the more exposed without them at her back.

"Aneth ara, Taranari. Emma Keeper Hawen. What brings you to Dirthavaren?" the Keeper said genially enough, though she could see him eyeing her face suspiciously and his stance spoke of distrust. His brow was etched in a complex tribute to Dirthamen, the secret keeper, and she gritted her teeth imagining what she must look like in comparison.

"Ar garas Tarasy'lan Te'las," she explained, having practiced Skyhold's Elvish name several times with Solas on the journey to the plains. He'd insinuated that claiming such a place would earn the Inquisition respect among the elves, but she wasn't so sure. "Emma in Inquisition."

"Ahhhhh," the Keeper sighed, crossing his arms. "You're _that _one. I was wondering why you lacked the Vallaslin yet knew our language. It makes sense now."

Tara cocked her head, worried she'd blown it. "I don't know what you mean."

"I've heard of you, _Inquisitor_," he replied, somewhat accusingly. "You will find no help for your _hellathen,_" his voice laced with sarcasm, "here." The Keeper's decorated forehead creased and his nostrils flared in a superior sneer.

His tone itself was a slap across her face, the sneer adding insult to injury. "Atisha, Hahren. Have I wronged you in some way?" she tried to keep her voice as respectful and oblivious as possible, but the Keeper just stiffened at her further use of the language.

"You masquerade as one of my people and ask for peace? It will not be tolerated!" he bellowed, calling the attention of the rest of his clan, and in a moment she was surrounded by armed and armored Elvhen. Looking at the faces, she was overwhelmed by how alien they were, marked with symbols she hadn't had time to learn, and pinched in expressions of anger that had no cause in her mind.

She breathed deeply, forcing her hands from twitching towards the daggers at her waist. "I meant no offense. My blood is Dalish, but I was abandoned at a young age because I was thought to have magic," she spoke calmly, evenly. "When it was proven that was a mistake, I eventually was able to return to my clan, but it was too late for me to get the Vallaslin. I am not a pretender." Though she spoke with conviction, she did not believe her words. She _felt _false, standing amidst them. She knew very well she did not belong.

Many of the clan began to relax at her words; they'd known a few Dalish who had to be left behind for their gifts, Tara was certain. But the Keeper remained stiff and suspicious. "If you are as you say, I will let you prove it."

He proceeded to give her a number of tasks she could perform to gain the favor of the clan, essentially ransoming her validation as an elf for a few errands. She was sickened, though she parted as respectfully as she could, only letting her scowl loose when she had returned to her companions.

"What happened?" Iron Bull asked, seeing her expression.

She kicked up a clod of dirt and grass angrily. "They're elvhen'alas, that's what happened!" she shouted, knowing she was far enough from the clan that they would not hear.

Solas cocked his head knowingly. "They believe you are a harallen." It wasn't a question; he saw it in her eyes, as they filled with angry tears.

"And for those of us who don't speak Elvish?" Blackwall asked.

"Harallen is a trickster or traitor," Solas explained, his voice as mild as ever. He was unfazed by her pain.

She tilted her head back, blinking furiously in an attempt to contain the tears. Crying in front of people infuriated her. "They gave us some favors to do for them, but I…"

She'd meant to proclaim that she wasn't going to associate with or do anything for them, but looking out over the plains and feeling the enormity of the area around her gave her pause. These were people who needed her help, and she gave help when it was asked for, no matter how unkind or ungrateful those who asked were. It would be spite to deny them completely, when she would swallow her pride to help a caravan of humans.

"I think we should wait until we've dealt with all the battlefields in the area."

She watched Solas watch her make that decision, and the surprise that passed over his normally passive features was gratifying. The other two men merely patted her shoulders, mumbling apologies about the arse faced clan, and how they would do a really bad job with all of their requests.

* * *

That night they made camp in a small clearing near the Elvhen cemetery Keeper Hawen requested be cleared of demons. They'd spent the remainder of the day burning bodies and killing Arcane Horrors at the various battlegrounds in the area, as well as marking locations of issues that could be dealt with later at Skyhold, such as the collapsed bridge.

It was while sitting around the fire that Tara realized that it was probably odd that she so often chose to travel long distances with groups entirely of men. Or at least, it probably _looked _odd to outsiders.

_The things they must say about me, _she wondered, glancing around at the trio of men she was sharing a meal with.

"What do you think people think of me, always travelling with men?" she asked them, setting her bowl in her lap.

Bull perked up, looking away from the stew he'd been loudly devouring. "They probably think we take turns pitching a tent with you, Boss," he rumbled in his deep Qunari voice, wiggling his eyebrows for effect. Tara laughed.

Solas didn't get the joke. "We _do _take turns pitching the tents," he said, eliciting roars of laughter from the other three.

The elf still looked confused when Blackwall sobered, getting a wicked look in his eyes, and asked, "Who's opinion are you worried about, my lady?"

"Hmmm?" she tried to play it off, hoping the firelight would hide the blush creeping up her face. None of the men thought she was so innocent; even Solas smirked at her attempt to pretend.

"We know you must be sweet on someone, with all these _fine_ fellows around," Bull said, locking his fingers behind his head and leaning back against his pack, as if to display his personal fineness.

"I would venture a guess, but I don't think it would go well for me," Solas teased, smirk widening. Tara had told him about her dream, starring Cullen, among others, in the hope that he could help her decipher it, and she was sure that's where his mind was wandering.

"Ah, no fun elf," Blackwall exclaimed, tossing his empty bowl in Solas' direction.

The mage caught it deftly, placing it with the other dishes to be washed before they retired. Then, he turned to Tara. "But since we're on the subject, why _do _you always travel with men?"

This caused some snickering from the other two, but Tara could tell Solas was serious. He really wanted to know.

"Well I guess… Shut up, you two," she interrupted herself to scold Blackwall and Bull, who had begun muttering more dirty jokes under their breath. "It's because it's just _easier. _Sera is incredibly skilled, but taking her with me means babysitting her, which I don't always have the energy for. So, if I think I'll need an archer, Varric is usually the logical choice."

"Plus, _Bianca," _Bull said dreamily. He had an infatuation with Varric's crossbow.

"Yes," she agreed, laughing. "She packs a hell of a punch."

"I'm curious to hear your reasoning on Cassandra and Vivienne," Solas prodded, drawing her back to the conversation.

Tara sighed, leaning back to look up at the clouded evening sky; the sun had just set and the stars were beginning to wink out. "Cassandra's great – smart, powerful, a little bit in your face… which is how I like my women," she directed the last comment at Bull who grinned at her jest. "But when she's in the party, I never feel completely in charge. It's like being her prisoner is still hanging over my head and I can't fully relax. If we'd met under different circumstances, I think we'd be quite inseparable… Now, Vivienne is one hell of a mage, but she's also quite the diplomat. And I'd rather have her at Skyhold helping Josephine than out here with me grousing about sleeping in tents and bathing in strea—"

"We bathe in the field?" Bull interrupted.

Another bout of uproarious laughter followed; even Solas chuckled good naturedly.

"Well _I _do," she finally answered, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye.

Blackwall twirled his beard between his fingers. "That must be why you're in charge."

"Yeah, mark of a true leader. You never smell like a dead goat like the rest of us," Bull offered, his good eye crinkled in a half smile.

"I _never _smell like a dead goat," Solas insisted, looking frustrated that someone would imply such a thing about him.

It went on like that until they retired to their tents, leaving Blackwall on first watch.

* * *

It was the first of many nights that she didn't dream about the Templars her choice had condemned. A more distant demon had returned to haunt her subconscious.

Seeing the Dalish aravels again, as different as they were from the one she'd been raised in, had brought back old, forgotten images.

Images of a fire.

In her dream, she was trapped in her childhood bed, blanket tangled around her small body, screaming for help as her aravel went up in flames around her. Heat pressed into her from all sides, the air burning her lungs as she cried, cringing every time the structure crackled and collapsed with fire. Her mother was struggling towards her, burning herself in the smoky haze as she tried to rescue her daughter. Tara could barely see through the tears streaming from her eyes at the overwhelming smoke.

"Mamae!" she shouted, struggling until she was free from the blanket and could clamber out of the bunk type bed she slept in.

It was then that she realized _she _was on fire. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, watching as the flame licked at her arms; it had not registered that she felt no pain. Her mind was clouded with fear.

"Da'len! Da'len where are you?" her mother's strong voice cut through the haze, coughing as the smoke stung her lungs.

"Mamae, I'm burning!" Tara sobbed, paralyzed where she stood, separated from her mother by pieces of the aravel roof that had caved in.

"No! I'm coming! Help me find y—"

But her mother's words were cut off as another section of the roof collapsed on top of her.

"MAMAE!" Tara screamed, knowing she was gone.

Her mother was _gone_.

She started crying in earnest, falling to her knees amidst the fire and cinders and sobbing into her hands. She was so afraid, so utterly, completely terrified. The loneliness of being without her was absolute and overwhelming; she tried to fight it with thoughts of her mother's voice, her warmth, her comfort. Tara wanted to be with her; nothing else mattered.

When she heard the shouts from outside, when the rest of the roof began to fall, she curled around her knees and let the flames that didn't burn cover her body. She slipped away into a pale blue sleep, hoping that her mamae would be there, that she could follow her.

* * *

Tara startled awake, blinking up at the canvas roof of her tent trying to get her bearings. _Was that how it really happened? _she wondered. She was only six when the fire took her mother and her clan from her; she remembered very little of the event, save the loneliness of losing her entire family.

She shouldn't have survived the fire in their aravel, especially since it originated in her cot, but when her clansmen began to sift through the wreckage, they'd found her wrapped in a powerful barrier spell, a spell she'd unknowingly cast, according to the Keeper.

The last spell she'd ever cast.

Maybe that was the blue light she'd seen in her dream.

She placed a hand to her forehead, wiping away the cold sweat that had beaded there.

Tara had been waking like that almost every night for the past few weeks, her sleep plagued by dreams that she couldn't shake, her subconscious only letting her rest for a few hours before startling her awake again. This might've been the most disturbing she'd had so far.

She opened the flap of her tent, crawling into the cool night air.

She needed to walk it off.

* * *

**Elvish Translations:**

**Era seranna ma, Keeper. Ar andaran atish'an. Emma Taranari Lavellan in an Free Marches. - **Excuse me, Keeper. Greetings/I enter this place in peace. I am Taranari Lavellan of the Free Marches.

**Aneth ara, Taranari. Emma Keeper Hawen. - **Greetings, Taranari. I am Keeper Hawen

**Ar garas Tarasy'lan Te'las. - **I come from Skyhold.

**Emma in Inquisition. - **I am with the Inquisition.

**hellathen - **noble struggle

**Atisha, Hahren. - **Peace, Elder.

**elvhen'alas - **dirt elves

**Mamae - **mother

**Da'len - **someone young, innocent, or dear


	5. Lethallan

**Thank you SO MUCH for the favorites, follows, and reviews! I am really enjoying writing this story, and it is so gratifying to know you all are enjoying it too.**

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**And as always, enjoy the chapter! :)**

* * *

Chapter 5 – Lethallan

Hearing the whisper of footsteps behind her, Tara's dagger was at the intruder's throat almost instantly.

She didn't know who she expected it to be – a bandit perhaps?

She'd told Blackwall to go to sleep, she would take over watching the camp, and was pacing around the edges of the dying firelight when someone came up behind her, walking in the sound her footsteps made. If she hadn't paused suddenly, she would not have known they were there.

She shouldn't have been so surprised to find Solas's throat beneath her blade, but a small gasp escaped her lips before she lowered the weapon. She wondered if he knew how close she'd come to killing him.

"I am sorry, Lethallan," he whispered, sounding more emotional than she'd ever heard him. He seemed not to be referring to merely startling her.

He'd never called her "Lethallan" before.

"You almost got yourself killed," she replied, sheathing her dagger with a wry smile that didn't reach her eyes.

He looked at her sympathetically, which was a surprise in and of itself. "As did you."

"I don't think so," she laughed humorlessly. "I had you just now, admit it."

"I was not referring to just now," he said quietly, still looking at her in a very unnerving way. "I wonder the Fade when I sleep. What does that tell you?"

"Wha—"

It hit her like a hammer.

He'd been watching her dreams. All this time, she'd never considered after the conversation they had in the Fade version of Haven that he would or even _could _enter her dreams again. Now, she understood the knowing glances, the twists of his mouth, the way he seemed completely unfazed when she relayed her dream about the dead Templars from Therinfal Redoubt.

"You were watching," she said numbly, too shocked to even be angry. She had never intended for anyone to find out she'd killed her own mother. _Especially _Solas; his eyes held enough judgment already.

His gaze turned to the ground in apology. "I was."

"How long?" she demanded, working up to anger.

His abashed face answered her question. "Always?"

He nodded. "A small number over a long period of time."

"Do you watch all of us?" Her rage was beginning to bubble up, coloring her tone.

"No." Solas sighed, studying his hands. "The others are more guarded; I am not allowed to see what they experience. You are surprisingly open. I have never experienced another's dreams like yours." His voice was calm as ever, but she heard an edge behind it; whether respect or shame, she could not tell.

Tara scoffed. "Am I supposed to be happy about that? You invaded my privacy! If I had known—"

"I know, and for that I am sorry," he interrupted, eyes boring into hers. "I did not know it was your dream until it was already over. I did not seek it out, but found it wandering the Fade. I have tried to avoid your dreams since realizing my intrusion, but it is hard to recognize your subconscious when we travel; I thought it was a memory."

The fire drained out of her. "It _is _a memory," she sighed, turning away from him. "One of the only ones I have of my mother… Isn't that ironic?" She walked further from the light of the fire, staring up at the dome of sky, a great sadness settling over her.

"I do not think I follow."

"My sharpest memory of my mother is the night I killed her," she said without feeling, tracing the Elven constellation Assan, the archer, with her eyes.

Solas placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he'd touched her outside of a battle scenario.

"I… have felt your pain… but it is not your fault. You should not blame yourself," he said softly, removing his hand when he finished speaking. He sounded surprisingly… guilty. She wondered at the cause; was it merely because he had witnessed her secrets without her permission?

Either way, she appreciated the gesture. "Thank you, Solas."

He cleared his throat, as if to change the subject. "If I may ask," he began, returning to his normal inquisitive candor, "do you know what happened to your magic?"

Tara looked away from the stars to smile at him sadly. "I have no idea. I never cast another spell, nor ever knew I _had _casted any. It's quite the unsolved mystery." She hugged her arms against the cold, having left the heavy leather duster she normally wore over her tunic and leggings in her tent.

His brow furrowed. "I have sensed mana in you before, but thought it was just a trick of the anchor. Now I am not so certain." He was staring pensively out into the night, the sounds beyond their circle of fire wild and unknowable; it occurred to her that she might describe the elven mage similarly. "You sought out the rebel mages to this end?"

"Partially, but they told me what every mage before has told me. Apparently, it's like I have the ability to possess mana, but am completely drained of it, like a smited mage, except permanent." She looked at Solas; he was studying her again. She hated it when he looked at her like a specimen, some Fade ruin he could unlock the secrets of.

"Yes… it does seem similar, but I am not convinced it is so simple…" He met her eyes again, this time an earnestness that she rarely saw in his features. "Why did you not come to me, Lethallan?"

She was shocked that he'd taken that route of questioning, and unprepared to explain her reasons. He _was _the only person who she'd met who could be called an expert on the Fade, and thus a prime resource for this sort of problem. "I… I didn't want anyone to know. Cassandra is the only one who I've told about my past, and I omitted…"

Tara trailed off when she saw how he was shaking his head; there was disappointment as well as understanding in it. "You do not trust me." It was not a question.

She pursed her lips, mask hardening. "Trust is hard to come by. I try not to hand it out without cause."

"Have I not given you cause?" Solas bristled. "My help, my service, my _life_ if required? Is that not _enough?" _he asked, voice straining against emotions she couldn't decipher.

She shook her head. "Your interest in the Breach and the anchor is your own. I… our partnership is a means to an end."

There was an expression on his face she'd never seen before, and she didn't know how to describe it. He looked somewhat chagrined, as well as angry, but there was more there. So many pieces of him that she couldn't put together.

"Fenedhis! You do not understand!" he snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to calm himself. Then, more softly, "You cannot understand…"

Tara ran a hand through her hair, the dark red strands already tousled from her fitful sleep. "Help me to." She tried to keep the demand out of her voice, but his remoteness frustrated her. She just wanted the _truth._

_All _of it.

"I cannot." Tara opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "_However, _I feel that I have wronged you by learning of your past, and refusing to share my own. I would make that right."

She crossed her arms, sinking into a hip, as if to say, _And?_

His mouth pursed, like it didn't want to utter the words, but his eyes spoke of conviction. "Allow me to help you solve this mystery of your disappearing magic." He paused, wringing his hands in a moment of indecision. "In this way, I will prove my respect and faith in you."

While Tara was surprised by the words he used to describe his opinion of her, she did her best not to show it, studying him with utmost scrutiny. She'd always been good at recognizing when people were being false, especially since her experience with Hollith. That, more than anything, taught her to trust her instincts.

And her instincts told her that Solas was being as honest as he could be with her. He had darkness inside of him, darkness he didn't feel he could share. Yet, he didn't deny it; he tried to make amends for his mistakes.

She decided then that he was worth trying, worth the effort of caring about.

Even if it turned to dirt, she would let herself be his friend. Even if that's not what he wanted or thought he needed. It was time to accept the elf for who he was.

"Deal," she said with a small smile, holding out her hand to shake.

* * *

Varric could hear the Inquisitor's voice inside the elven mage's study, bidding him goodnight. It gave the dwarf an unpleasant taste in his mouth. She'd been coming and going that way so frequently lately, he had begun to worry that there was something happening there.

And by the stone, _that _would be bad for everyone. Varric knew _very well _what happened when powerful women got involved with broody mages; he'd seen the damage it could cause.

When the red haired elf emerged from the door beside the fireplace he frequented, he was still deep in thought, an uncharacteristically broody furrow in his brow. The Inquisitor wished a nearby stone cutter (who was chiseling designs on one of the repaired columns) a nice night, saving Varric for second, having noticed his expression before he could shift it back to one of amused apathy.

"Something on your mind, Varric?" she asked as she approached, intuitive as ever. She could catch his eyes for half a second and know if something was bothering him; it was unnerving and incredibly frustrating. He didn't like not being able to lie to her.

He sighed, looking into the fire as he answered, hoping that would protect him from her lie detector. "I'm just worried about Hawke."

Her amber eyes flashed knowingly, and he was certain he'd been caught. "Is that _all?" _She quirked an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Of course," he lied, meeting her hard stare with one of his own.

It was often a battle of wills between them.

After several moments she groaned, sinking into the armchair beside his own. "_Fine." _She drew the word out, making it two syllables, then quickly changed the subject. "So, have you seen Blackwall's beard? He let Scout Harding _braid _it!"

He knew that she was tricking him, pretending to let him off the hook so easily. She'd figured out that if she acted like she didn't really want to know something, he would cave and tell her. Every time. He just couldn't resist.

"Yeah, it's awful but, look… I know you've been visiting baldy a lot lately, and I—"

"Solas?" She quirked an eyebrow, already smirking at her successful reverse manipulation. "I wasn't aware I had been spending more time speaking with him than usual." Her voice was evidently amused, making Varric question himself. He'd expected her to become defensive.

"Well, you're always coming through here, especially since you scouted the Plains, and I hear you talking…" He trailed off, realizing she'd probably be angry at him for listening to her, even though he could rarely make out the actual words. He just recognized that she was speaking.

Instead of getting cross, her face twisted into a smile, as she resisted the urge to laugh at him. "Varric," she began, laughter in her voice despite her efforts at seriousness. "This door you've been staking out leads to many more places than just Solas' atrium – the library, the rookery, Cullen's office—"

She stopped abruptly, realizing she had not referred to Cullen as "the Commander" as she usually did, a look of surprise overtaking her features.

Varric had caught more than the omission of his title, however. The way the elf had said the Commander's name when she wasn't paying attention was almost _tender. _It convinced him that he didn't need be worried about the broody _mage_. The Inquisitor appeared to prefer broody _Templars._

Whether she knew it yet or not, Varric saw the writing on the wall.

"On a first name basis, huh?" the dwarf teased.

"I don't call Leliana or Josephine by their titles," she defended, her voice turning the color he'd expected when he brought up her relationship with Solas.

He chuckled, glad to see the tables turned for once. She was never this addled by anything he said. "It appears my concern was unfounded. Goodnight, Red." It was practically a dismissal, and she stiffened in her seat at his tone.

She stared at him for several moments, her expression alternating between confusion and frustration, before she finally stood, a smirk dominating her mouth once again. "It's nice to know you care, tiny," she said in parting, shaking her head as she walked through the main hall to her quarters.


	6. Doubts

**Welcome back! Hope you're enjoying the story, and can't wait to hear what you think of the new chapter, now that we're getting into more Cullen-y stuff.**

**On a different note, some of you may have noticed I've added trigger warnings to the chapters containing material discussing Taranari's sexual assault that occurs prior to the story's opening. This was due to a request from a guest reviewer (who I'd like to give a shout-out to: thanks for the suggestion, whoever you are!), and will be continued with all future chapters containing said material. **

**I would also like to apologize to anyone who is still following this story who has been negatively affected by the passages discussing the sexual assault; I had not considered that possibility previously. In an effort to rectify this, if anyone still reading has been made uncomfortable by such passages but wants to continue with story, please PM me and I would be happy to send you edited versions of future chapters containing said material, with a G rated summary of the offensive sections. I hope this solution is agreeable to everyone :)**

**Thanks! Back to the angsty goodness.**

* * *

Chapter 6 – Doubts

"Maker, protect her," Cullen whispered a prayer, watching the red haired woman slip out the side door.

She was leaving again, this time for Empress Du Lion, determined to liberate Sahrnia from the Red Templars that had overrun the area before the Orlesian ball they were all dreading.

As much as Cullen agreed that it must be done, he struggled watching her leave again, when she'd just returned from the Hissing Wastes a few days before. Having read her reports of riding for hours through vicious sandstorms and parching heat to root out the sparse Venatori activity in the area, and knowing that Empress Du Lion was a frozen, ice-scape just as treacherous, he wished she'd had more than a few days of fitful rest and piles of paperwork in between the two. However, it couldn't be helped.

_And she's the Inquisitor, _he reminded himself. _She can handle herself._

He was constantly fighting with himself about that, constantly trying to reconcile the woman he'd met beneath the glow of the Breach with the woman she'd made herself into out of necessity, the Inquisitor. She'd been softer when they met, had an innocence to her that watching Haven burn had stripped away. She used to oversee the recruits with him, spar with him to demonstrate the adaptations you had to make when fighting someone trained in speed. She'd smile maddeningly when she won, even moreso when she lost, making him promise her a rematch.

Now… her smiles were much rarer, and fleeting. She never came to the training grounds except to talk to Cassandra or Iron Bull, and when he reminded her once of the match he owed her, she reminded him of all the work they both had to do.

But what bothered him most was the look in her eyes when he got too close to her.

_The fear._

He wondered if she knew what had happened at the Circle tower, if she was afraid he was mentally unstable, and that's why she flinched away from his casual touch. He saw how she interacted with the other men; she'd hook arms with Solas, dragging him out of his mural walled atrium into the fragrant garden, she'd train with Iron Bull, letting him teach her Qunari fighting techniques, and she'd playfully tug on Blackwall's beard to get him to lighten up if he was brooding over his dinner. Varric and Dorian also were treated with the same easy affection, and she practically doted upon Cole at times.

Yet, she recoiled from Cullen.

_Perhaps it's that they travel together. She just doesn't know you as well, _he tried to reason with himself, a conversation he'd had many times.

He had been trying to maintain a professional distance, to respect her boundaries, but he found that he _missed _training with her, her easy smile, the way her eye jumped when she was irritated with someone… He had to practically wrench himself away from thoughts of her sometimes, in order to get any work done.

Especially after she'd stammeringly told him she was happy he'd made it out of Haven safely.

_That _little nugget had led to him making her more uncomfortable than ever before, practically throwing himself at her in apology for letting her stay behind, to potentially die to save them all. He'd seen the way she swallowed nervously when he instinctively tugged on her arm to pull her closer to him, trying to convey how torn he'd been. The anxiety she'd felt became apparent as her breath began to heave through her small form, and he immediately released her, apologizing for his impropriety.

Cullen blushed at the memory, ashamed of his behavior. He needed to work out whatever was going on between them before he made more of a fool of himself. She obviously no longer either wanted or could handle the comradery they'd shared before the move to Skyhold, and he _had _to accept that and stop dwelling on it all the time.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

Pushing away from his over cluttered desk, he made his way down to the stables to see her party off. He hoped that knowing who she was taking with her would ease his mind somewhat.

As he approached, he could see Blackwall (whose courser was saddled and tied to a nearby post) helping Varric to saddle his mare, the only mount they had taught to kneel so Varric could climb onto her back. Dorian was already sitting atop the Imperial Warmblood he'd named Tevi (because he said she reminded him of home), and the Inquisitor was saddling her hart – the slender, white one she called Elgar.

She flicked a piece of dark red hair out of her eyes, cooing to the antlered animal and rubbing its neck as she tightened the straps around its stomach. Cullen noticed she didn't put a bridle or bit on it, and he saw her eyeing the stirrups dubiously.

"Too good for reigns, I see!" he called, closing the distance between them, but leaving several feet of space for her peace of mind.

An unexpected smile lit up her face at his interruption, and warmth spread through his chest at the sight of it. "I never use them," she replied, walking around the animal to where he stood. "Elgar here," she scratched the beast affectionately between his ears, "hates bridles, so Dennet helped me train him to respond to vocal commands."

Cullen's jaw practically dropped. "You…what… How did you find the _time?" _he sputtered, amazed. She'd only purchased the animal a few weeks ago and had been in the Hissing Wastes for half of that time.

Taranari laughed, pulling herself onto the back of her steed. "He's a quick learner."

_Taranari, _he mulled over her name in his mind, realizing he liked the way it sounded. He longed to say it aloud, even though propriety dictated he could not.

Varric, having finally gotten into the saddle of his own horse, steered her over, interrupting their conversation. "To what do we owe this send off, Commander? I thought Red just got back from telling you we were leaving." There was a wicked smirk on his face, and his eyes glinted mischievously.

Cullen knew that whatever Varric was up to, it wasn't going to be good for him. "So she did. I came down to discuss the possibility of acquiring more mounts from Amaranthine with Master Dennet," he said flawlessly, having practiced the line on his way to the stables.

Taranari's smile faltered a little at that admission, but Varric merely rolled his eyes, as if he knew that was not entirely the case. "Mhmmm," the dwarf muttered dubiously, shooting a pointed look at the red haired elf, the meaning of which she didn't seem to catch.

Cullen decided it was time to take his leave, before the man felt the need to clarify his suspicions.

"My lady," he said in parting, nodding, as he rounded their band to enter the main portion of the stables, having been standing at the entrance. He had every intention of fulfilling his excuse for seeing her again before she left, so as not to incur further embarrassment for himself.

"Commander," she murmured, nodding in kind, her expression clouded and inscrutable.

He thought she sounded almost sad to see him go, but knew he must be deluding himself.

* * *

Empress Du Lion was a nightmare. The place was positively _crawling _with red lyrium addled Templars, who also happened to be kidnapping people from Sahrnia, under the command of some damned demon who (according to Michel de Chevin, the chevalier they met outside of the town) was calling himself Imshael and masquerading as human. Michel's information had been good, based on the documents they'd found clearing out the mines, and Tara was ready to move on Suledin keep once reinforcements arrived. Unfortunately, all of the correspondence she'd sent to Skyhold hadn't been answered.

They'd been sitting in their forward most camp, established adjacent to an abandoned tower used to monitor enemy movements, for three days waiting for word from Cullen and Leliana. Tara knew that it should have taken two days at most for the messenger she'd sent to reach Skyhold, and only a few hours for one of Leliana's ravens to return with a reply.

She was worried.

What had happened? Was the messenger merely delayed? Or was something more serious happening at the hold? Did Corypheus attack while she was away?

She'd been chewing on her fingernails for the past several hours, locked in indecision about how she should proceed.

"Well, Red, we're going to have to make a move at some point. What do you want to do?" Varric asked, plopping down on the cold bench-like slab of stone beside her.

She shot him a disapproving glance. Everyone else had noticed her tension and left her well enough alone; Varric just couldn't resist butting in.

"What?" the dwarf said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Don't skewer a poor dwarf for pointing out the obvious!"

She narrowed her eyes, as if to say, _If it was obvious, then why did you have to say it?_

Varric sighed, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward. "We need to _do something _Red. Those Templars aren't in there planting daisies. People are dying while we sit out here and wait." He was being unusually candid with her, and she wondered when he began criticizing her so openly. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased that he respected her enough to do so, or irritated that he picked the worst possible moment.

"You don't think I know that?" she snapped, rubbing her temples. "But moving forward without back-up will risk all of these," she motioned to the encampment of Inquisition scouts and soldiers," lives. I'm not doing that. I just… I need…"

She trailed off, catching sight of a black blob alighting at the top of the moldering tower next to their camp.

"_That," _she announced, breaking into a run. She was almost positive it was one of Leliana's ravens.

And she was right.

"Just in time for the party," Varric wheezed as she removed the message from the bird's leg. He'd followed her to the top of the tower, but the stairs combined with his shorter step had left him quite out of breath.

Tara ignored him, unrolling the parchment with shaking fingers. Scanning it, a tremendous burden lifted and she sighed gratefully.

"The messenger I sent was attacked by bandits," she read with an inappropriate amount of relief. "Thankfully, one of Leliana's scouting parties found him and relayed the message back to Skyhold." She turned to Varric with a grin. "Reinforcements are on the way!"

Tara pumped a fist in the air, much to the dwarf's amusement, before quickly penning a reply and releasing the raven back through the half collapsed window it had entered through.

"Is _Cullen _coming with them?" Varric teased as they made their way back down the stairs.

She was in such high spirits from the news, that she completely missed his choice of title or the emphasis in his voice. "How did you—" She stopped abruptly, having glanced at his face. "Oh." He had the sneakiest of smiles fixed there.

"So he really _is _coming?" he snickered.

Tara's face reddened considerably. "The Commander is bringing a group of newly converted former Templars to help lay siege to the keep, yes," she said curtly, trying to conceal the embarrassment in her voice.

Varric wasn't convinced. He never was. "And he needed to accompany them, why?"

The message from Leliana had not given an explanation. "He wanted some personal experience with the Red Templar threat, I suppose," she provided. It hadn't sounded nearly as hollow in her head as it did when she said it aloud, and watched the skeptical dwarf's reaction.

It convinced her that, if a look could shrink someone down to the size of a pin, Varric would have been _incredibly _useful on Corypheus' blighted dragon.

As it were, he just made her feel small and utterly foolish.

"He doesn't trust me to do the job," she concluded, head hanging with the realization. She felt so _stupid. _Why had she expected they would let her handle the capture of such an important asset on her own? Wasn't she just sitting there, waiting for word from them, to tell her what to do?

Varric groaned, turning to her as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "You're hopeless, Red," he sighed, shaking his head as he exited the tower, leaving her to her doubts.


	7. Sincerity

**Wow, seven chapters in already! I'm really enjoying writing this, so I hope you all are enjoying it too! Thank you for all of the favorites and follows :)**

**Sadly, this story will probably not be updated as often after this chapter, as I've been on break and my spring semester starts up Monday. However, barring unforeseen circumstances, I will update every Sunday. Good luck to everyone who's starting back at school as well! **

**WARNING: Minor discussion of sexual assault in this chapter!**

* * *

Chapter 7 – Sincerity

They'd been wildly successful in Empress Du Lion, by Cullen's standards. The siege on the keep went quickly and efficiently, the men got some training fighting giants, and Taranari and her party slayed the demon Imshael before any of their men could get close enough to even be in danger from it, earning her the allegiance of a chavalier as well as the admiration of their soldiers. The Commander considered it a great win for the Inquisition.

Yet he felt more downtrodden than ever.

He'd tried to engage the Inquisitor in conversation several different times on the march back to Skyhold, and every time received responses so wooden, he hardly believed they'd come from her lips. He would almost be concerned that she was ill or possessed, if he didn't see her interacting perfectly normally with everyone _else. _Again, he was the only one being snubbed.

He didn't understand it. Worse, he was beginning to resent her for it.

_With everything that I do for our cause, she could at least attempt to explain her sudden dislike for me_, he thought angrily, brooding at his desk well after all the sane people had turned in.

But was it dislike? A voice gnawing at the back of his mind told him it was more complicated than that. The way she had smiled at him when he came to see her off certainly suggested that, though she'd said nothing to support the theory. And, he thought they had the sort of mutual trust and bond made by the shared burden of leadership that would allow her to tell him if there was something bothering her, something more than that the invasion of her personal space made her uncomfortable.

_What if it's because I'm a Templar? _

The question wasn't an unreasonable one, though he wouldn't think that Taranari would be quick to jump to stereotypes. However, Leliana had said something about her spending time in the Circle as a child, though they hadn't gotten a clear answer as to why. Perhaps she had her reasons to resent Templars, and after the attack on Haven, her prejudices came rushing back. Maybe it was that simple.

He almost wanted that to be the reason, because if it were, he could write their friendship off as a lost cause and stop worrying about every word he said to her. Yet, at the same time, Cullen knew that finding out she was that shallow in her judgment of character would pain him greatly. The respect he would lose for her…

No, it wasn't just prejudice.

"You should ask her," a voice interrupted his thoughts, and he jumped, fumbling for his sword as he looked for the source of the noise. Spotting the quiet young man, Cole, in the shadowed corner beyond his desk's circle of candlelight did little to ease Cullen's nerves. Though, he did take his hand off the hilt of his sword, still in its scabbard.

"Cole. What a pleasure," he said dryly. Cullen had little patience for the tricks of the spirit, especially after the stunt he'd pulled with the disappearing daggers. And he only _remembered_ that incident because Taranari had asked Cole to give him back the awareness, and apologize for taking a memory and equipment that was necessary for Cullen to do his job in training and outfitting their soldiers.

"He helps them protect and help other people, Cole," the spirit recited, his voice imitating the cadence of Taranari's. "You're stopping him from doing that by stealing daggers and making him forget they've been stolen." Cole paused, returning to his own monotonous way of speaking. "You were surprised. Impressed by her."

Cullen had to resist the urge to roll his eyes; it annoyed him when the boy showed he could tell what Cullen was thinking. It seemed like a display of power to him. "She is impressive," he replied simply, pretending to go through papers on his desk, hoping Cole would leave.

"But you're sad because you think she isn't impressed by you because of what you are," Cole prattled, stepping closer to the desk.

Cullen stiffened. "Stop going through my thoughts," he demanded through gritted teeth.

"I'm not. You're sending them to me," the boy said, looking confused. "They're all around you."

The Commander sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. He just wanted to know what was going on with Taranari, not deal with Cole's crazy jabbering. "Please, Cole. Just leave me."

The boy cocked his head. "Ask her. She is sad, too," he said, then vanished.

_What was that all about? _he mused.

Cullen knew that Cole had merely made him forget he was there. He could still be in the room, watching. It made Cullen's skin crawl and hairs stand up, thinking about it.

"Like I'm going to be able to sleep _now_," he muttered. He pushed away from his desk, sparing a glance for the philter case wedged onto his overflowing bookshelf. A little lyrium would stop his skin from crawling…

_No, _Cullen told himself, ripping his gaze from the case and forcing his legs to carry him out into the cold night air. The chill cleared his head somewhat, and he made his way along the ramparts, putting more and more distance between himself and his vice.

At times like this, he inevitably found himself thinking of her. What would Taranari think? What would she say to him if she knew? Would she understand why he had to force himself through this torment, or would she tell him he was overreacting and that he shouldn't be handicapping himself at a time like this?

Cullen ran a hand through his hair, reminded of how she'd once called him "golden boy" because of his blonde curls.

"Maker," he murmured, coming to a stop where the ramparts overlooked the gardens. There was a torch lit down there, casting a circle of light through which a head of unmistakably red hair passed, pacing.

He couldn't help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. She was impossible.

Cullen didn't stop to think about why that made warmth radiate through him; instead, he made his way to the staircase that led into the gardens.

Taranari turned when she heard him coming.

* * *

She was pacing in the gardens.

It was the middle of the night, she was exhausted from the march back to Skyhold, and she was walking circles in the Maker forsaken gardens.

"Urgggghhhhhh!" Tara pressed her palms to her eyelids in frustration. "Just go to _sleep!"_

She'd been wondering around the castle for hours, unable to hold still, trying to distract herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to rest; she did, but Maker her pride _hurt. _After Cullen had felt the need to sweep into Empress Du Lion and save the day, before she could screw it all up, or sit there forever waiting for a sign telling her what to do… she hadn't felt like herself. The faith had drained out of her, and what little fight she had left came from the bitterness that welled up in its wake. And she'd used most of that taking Suledin Keep.

Now, she just felt like a shell of herself. She wasn't sure what was real anymore. She wasn't sure she had been counted on to lead the Inquisition; maybe she was really just a figurehead, a symbol. Had she actually thought they would give all of that power to an _elf_?

It only made the sting worse to know that Cullen was the one who brought her to her senses.

"Golden boy," she murmured to herself sadly.

Of all of her advisors, she'd respected him the most, and being around him had changed her many times over. At first, watching him had made her a better, more confident leader. Then, after the attack on Haven, when the terror brought back an old fear, his presence had been part of overcoming that as well. And, as she made more visits to his office to assure herself Hollith's memory no longer haunted her mind, she realized that she was _looking _for reasons to visit him.

And that scared her more than anything.

Hollith was a fleeting pain. She'd dealt with that trauma many years ago, and what she'd experienced the first few weeks at Skyhold was like an echo. But it was enough to convince her that she had to confront it, as she had the first time. Then, she'd drug herself to the Chantry, the very Chantry _he _was supposed to be escorting her to when he instead left her lying, bloody and bruised, in the shallow water and silt of the riverbed she rolled into when he was done with her. After finding her in much the same condition on their doorstep, the Chantry sisters had cared for and comforted her, and the constant presence and protection of the Templars there allowed her to separate the man who hurt her from the men who claimed the same faith and vigilance. So, naturally, when she found herself plagued by memories from that night again, she sought out the nearest Templar, the stimulus for their recursion, in an effort to stem them.

That had been completely logical, her best course of action. What was neither logical nor the best result was how much she began to enjoy Cullen's sideways smirk, how she blushed when her companions mentioned him, how she drank in his scent when he was near enough for her to catch it. She couldn't have those feelings, those desires. She absolutely refused them!

Because he was her Commander, and Tara didn't have crushes, she didn't fall. She was fierce and strong and not the type of person who became _enamored_.

So what was once fear of a detested piece of her past, became fear of something _very different, _and she was changed again.

But now…if she had those feelings that she didn't want for a man who didn't respect her back, who handed her false authority, who—

Footsteps interrupted her wallowing, and even if she hadn't heard the metallic _shing _of his armor, she knew it would be him. Somehow, that was the only way this played out, with him revealing to her what a failure or joke she really was.

She turned to face him, head as proud as she could make it, button nose upturned.

* * *

"Commander." Taranari's voice was as apathetic as it had been on the march home, her sneer firmly in place, but in the torchlight her golden eyes glowed, and in them, Cullen saw her doubt.

"Inquisitor?" his voice came out small, unsure, a question. He almost didn't recognize the woman before him.

"I…" There was a tear in her mask for a moment, as if his reaction disarmed her, but she blinked away the emotion before he could name it. "I wanted to apologize for my inaction in Empress Du Lion. It was—"

"Apologize?" he cut her off. What was she talking about? Empress Du Lion had gone perfectly.

"Yes…" Suddenly she looked unsure, her stony resolve faltered. "I should have…"

He wasn't sure what she thought she _should have _done, and as she trailed off, he got the impression that she wasn't so sure either.

"I mean… I thought…" She looked down at the anchor on her hand, then clenched her fist, searching his eyes. There was a desperation in her he'd never seen before, and it unnerved him.

"You thought what?" Cullen said slowly, taking a few cautious steps closer. He felt as if her eyes were drawing him forward, like a moth to a flame, a beacon in the darkness.

He'd never seen her look so vulnerable.

He wanted to be closer, to see it more clearly.

Then, it was gone. Mask back in place, a sheepish smile. "I think I'm overtired, Commander. I'll have to bid you goodnight."

She was across the garden before her words even registered, abandoning her torch in her haste.

Cullen tried to avoid noticing that she'd _fled _when he stepped closer to her or that she'd left a hole in her wake.

Instead, he picked up the torch with a sigh and carried it to the war room.

He had known he wouldn't be sleeping that night.

* * *

_Damn his sincere eyes, _Tara kicked herself, practically sprinting to the kitchens. She dared not go to her chamber in case he tried to follow her; then she'd have nowhere to run but over the balcony.

And she wasn't quite _that _desperate. Not yet.

The minute he looked at her, with that hopeful sort of confusion, she realized that she'd been more of a fool than ever before. Hadn't she told Cole he had sincere eyes? Hadn't that been the _start _of this mess?

And the moment she found a little self-doubt, she tried to pin it on him, make it into a betrayal.

"When there is no betrayal in him_,_" she breathed, sinking to the floor with her back against the kitchen door, kicking herself again for the soft smile that spread her mouth.

Fear. Fear had made her an idiot.

Cullen had come to Suledin Keep for an honest, mundane reason, like she'd tried to tell Varric, and had been pleased with their accomplishments in the siege. He'd even tried to talk to her, cheerily, on the way back, and had been snubbed several times because she thought he was manipulating her. She hadn't know what to believe and didn't think it was him.

She was letting Hollith's memory invade her life once again.

Maker, she thought she'd finished with that.

_But it is a safer problem to have… _Tara couldn't name what other problems wouldn't be as safe; she'd resolved not to think about them.

Anyway, she knew how to handle this. Same old, same old.

_Freaking out around Templars? Pssh. That's an easy one._

Leaving behind the things she half admitted to herself in the garden, she spent the rest of the night trying to convince herself it was really that simple.

The inexplicable smiles that crept up on her if she thought about him for too long were incredibly unhelpful.


	8. Rematch

**Thanks again for the follows and favorites! Check back next Sunday for more.**

**Enjoy, and please review! I always love hearing what you all think :) **

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Chapter 8 – Rematch

After the night in the garden, Tara and Cullen fell into a pattern of mutual awkwardness. Neither had been able to avoid the other, as their roles were both so closely intertwined with the Inquisition's success, so they muddled through the following days with increasing unease. During meetings at the war table, it was particularly noticeable, and Tara saw Leliana and Josephine exchange worried looks several times after one of Cullen and Tara's dysfunctional exchanges.

It got to the point that Tara began to wonder if she should just tell him about her past. It was getting difficult to overlook the hurt in his eyes as she distanced herself from him and only him, and it pained her to see it.

Another voice, a buried voice, whispered about telling him more than the past, but she shoved it down out of sight. The rest was a fantasy, a girlish daydream, and, in the moments when she wasn't flat out denying their existence, she strove to silence those thoughts

No, she couldn't talk to him. Far more might be revealed than she intended, and Tara was not prepared to face any of it yet. She'd sooner face Corypheus' dragon in her undergarments.

But she needed to do something to change the dynamic between them; they couldn't go on like this, with Tara hiding behind a smokescreen of fear, and Cullen frustrated and confused by the unexpected change in their relationship. It wasn't good for the Inquisition. They had almost been friends before Haven was destroyed; she'd been purposefully befriending him then, impressed by his easy leadership and the way he wielded his blade with restraint. Perhaps that was what she needed to return to.

He still owed her a rematch, after all.

She pushed back against the voices clamoring against the idea, claiming she was playing with fire, that she would reveal herself, that it wouldn't change anything. This was something she _knew _had worked for them – sparring had created a comfortable rhythm between them, born of comradery and mutual respect, as well as the teasing banter that inevitably ensued. If she could reclaim that, she had to make an effort. The Inquisition needed both of them, working together, to be successful; she owed it to the people who believed in her to fix what she had broken with her Commander.

Besides, she didn't train nearly as often as she should. Two birds, one stone.

She left the library, where she'd been going over some old Tevinter tomes with Dorian, searching for Corypheus' former name, and made a beeline for Cullen's office, knocking twice before entering.

The surprise on his face when she stepped through the door made guilt squirm through her stomach.

"My lady," he said, standing with urgency. His conduct suggested that he assumed her presence meant an emergency of some sort, which only made her feel worse about the way she'd been treating him lately.

"Relax, Commander," she said, waving him back into his seat with an almost natural smile. "I'm just here to remind you of that rematch you owe me. I thought, since Josephine has me on lockdown until Halamshiral, now might be the perfect time."

Her antivan advisor had requested, rather forcefully, that she not leave on any more missions until Empress Celine's ball, worried that Tara would be detained or injured, and therefore unable to attend; she also had some horrid etiquette lessons planned for her in the meantime. Neither had been appealing to the elven Inquisitor, but she had complied, out of respect for Josephine and everything she did for the Inquisition.

Cullen's expression evolved from utter shock, into a pleased smirk. "I think that might be just the thing to improve morale around here," he replied, pushing to his feet again. Tara didn't think he was actually talking about morale.

Catching onto the alternate meaning, she followed the metaphor. "I wasn't aware that morale was low, Commander," she observed innocently enough.

He met her eyes warmly, smirk widening. "You miss out on much, then."

Tara wasn't completely sure she understood what had just been said, but she knew that they hadn't been talking about the troop's morale, which had been higher than ever since the tavern was completed. She thought they were talking about their strained friendship, and he was telling her he was glad they were returning to normal.

At least, she hoped that was what he meant.

"So, meet me in the sparring circle in, oh, twenty minutes?"

"Are you sure you'll be ready? I mean, if you need a little more time to prepare—" he began teasingly. He used to rail her about the time it took for her to get into her armor back at Haven.

"Oh, I'll be ready," she interrupted, shooting him a cheeky wink before turning and exiting the way she came.

_You just couldn't resist, could you? _she scolded herself inwardly, though on the outside, she couldn't stifle a small smile. It persisted all the way back to her quarters.

* * *

No one else, of the small crowd that had gathered after hearing the Commander and Inquisitor were going to spar, seemed surprised or affected as Cullen was when Taranari slid off the duster she always wore over her leather armor.

They'd been trading blows for a short time then, both of them using two handed greatswords, at her suggestion. He'd balked when she carried out the dulled training weapons, surprised that she could even hold two at once, much less wield one properly, as slight as she was. But she'd insisted that she was more than capable, and she wanted to refresh her skills, in case there was a time she was forced to fight with one in the field.

She'd exceeded his every expectation, of course, meeting him strike for strike, not letting him push her into a corner where her lesser strength would be an issue, and using her size to her advantage. And, while there was much grunting as she hefted the huge steel weapon, she did not appear to be having much trouble. Cullen was incredibly impressed, though, when she backed away from him, waving at him to stay a moment as she stuck her sword in the dirt, he'd expected her to request a change of arms.

And, when she'd instead unlatched the belt cinched at her waist and shrugged off her duster, revealing the leather armor that was practically molded to her body, he stopped breathing for several moments. She turned back to him, wiping the sweat off of her brow with the back of her glove; her hair was in a dark red braid down her back, but a few pieces had struggled free and were sticking to her face and neck. Cullen tried not to stare at them; he swallowed several times, attempting to force his heart out of his throat.

Seeing his expression, she cocked her head to the side. "Tiring out already, Commander?"

A teasing smile danced across her lips. Cullen had to take several deep breaths before he could form coherent words. "Just catching my breath." That seemed an honest enough answer, although he didn't know how he would continue with their match when her body was such a distraction.

He hadn't been affected by the sight of a beautiful woman like that in a _long _time. He thought he must have a lot of, er, pent up energy in that regard, as it had been a long time since he'd done _that _as well.

"Well, I hope you've caught it," she replied, retrieving her weapon, and sinking back into her fighting stance, nodding her head upwards to motion that he should come and get her when he was ready.

He stifled a smile as he raised his own weapon, charging toward her in a manner he knew she would easily dodge. But which way? Left or right?

He watched her eyes, and a half a second before he reached her, she looked in the direction she was going; he'd seen her do it before, but hadn't been prepared for it then. Now, he was waiting for it, and managed to change direction just in time, forcing her to catch his blade on hers and push him back. He saw how her eyes widened then narrowed again, both impressed and determined at the same time. He focused on those eyes, trying to block out how the curves of her body were displayed as she arched back, her sword locked against his.

She didn't really have the mass to resist him in her current position, as he had the advantage of height and was pushing her down and over, throwing off her center of balance. So, she did what he'd expected her to do, and threw herself backwards, pushing away from the ground at an angle with the balls of her feet, trying to get out from under him. This move would've worked if he wasn't ready for it, jumping at almost the same moment she did, and coming down on top of her, sword to her throat.

However, she'd been ready for him as well, the chill of the metal at his own throat to prove it. Their arms and weapons had linked through each other in the air.

A draw.

There was a collective murmur from the crowd, remarking on the outcome.

Taranari smiled, pleased. "Should we continue until I thoroughly trounce you, or call it a day?"

Cullen was watching her lips as she spoke, unusually fascinated by them. He smirked in response to her jab, but didn't move off of her, nor was he encouraged to. She was frozen beneath him, her amber eyes holding his in a mesmerizing way. And though he saw how she sucked greedily at the air, it did not occur to him that it was in fear, but exhilaration. When he caught her gaze wavering down to his mouth in what seemed a trancelike request, he found himself beginning to oblige. His eyes slid closed and lips lowered towards hers, he felt her breath hot on his face, and then...

Someone behind them cleared their throat. Loudly.

Cassandra.

He snapped out of it, blushing like a school girl as he pulled himself off of Taranari, offering a hand to help her up without meeting her eyes. He could only imagine the reproach on her face; he didn't need it confirmed.

Then he heard her laugh bloom over the tittering of the onlookers.

His eyes slid slowly to her face as she took his hand, the good natured smile he'd forgotten he liked so much fixed on her face. Her golden eyes were bright and twinkling. "Falling asleep on me, Commander?" she teased as he pulled her to her feet. "Now that doesn't sound like you."

He wasn't sure how much she realized about where his mind had just been, but he was fairly certain she wasn't convinced by the excuse she was providing him. However, Cullen wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. "I may have dozed off for a moment. Sparring with you is hard work, you know," he chuckled, running a sheepish hand through his hair. He hoped she saw the gratitude in his eyes.

Her smile widened as the crowd laughed, suggesting that she had. "Perhaps a—"

"Inquisitor!" It seemed they were doomed to spend their lives perpetually being interrupted by messengers.

"Yes?" She smiled apologetically at Cullen as she turned to Leliana's agent.

The man spoke in an undertone, only loud enough for the two of them to hear. "The Champion just arrived. She's at the stables n—"

Taranari cut him off with a deprecating smile. "There's no need. Hawke will be at Varric's side by the fire before I even start towards the stables." The woman had only been to Skyhold once before, and she'd been intent on spending her entire visit on the battlements, but Varric had managed to coax her into the main hall with an Orlesian mask and a borrowed dress from Josephine. No one paid any heed to another noble come to gawk at the Inquisition's stronghold, and she'd remained glued to Varric until her departure. Cullen didn't doubt that this would be the case again, either.

"It seems you're getting off easy," the elven rogue said, handing him her training sword. She left him with a parting smirk, folding her duster over her left arm as she followed the messenger up to the throne room.

"I'm not so sure," he muttered to himself, watching her hips swing up the stairs.

_Maker's breath, she's something._

Suddenly, he felt the overwhelming urge to drink his weight in ale.


	9. Midwinter

**Hi lovely readers! Sorry about the delay in the update, but unfortunately the time I had set aside to edit and post this chapter was taken up by the interruption of an extremely drunk friend of my roommate who proceeded to puke all over our couch. Bleh. So, in cleaning that up (thank god for vinyl) my writing time was blown, and the rest of my free time had to be devoted to actual classwork. But I got it up as soon as I could, and I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Thanks for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and general love for this story that went unexpressed virtually but was felt in your hearts ;D**

**Also, hope you guys like the wardrobe changes for the ball. I didn't think it was realistic for them all to be wearing those same red suits when Orlais is all about fashion and opulence that reflects status, so I threw in some masks and gowns.**

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Chapter 9 – Midwinter

The Winter Palace reminded Cullen of the desire demons he'd seen when the Fereldan Tower of Magi fell – beautiful and deadly. The association made him shiver; he did not relish thoughts on that time of his life, but they did evoke the same feelings of dread and disgust he felt in Halamshiral.

The Orlesian palace oozed of power and excess, in equal parts, a roiling mass of superiority wrapped in velvet and satin. But there was control there as well, a simpering restraint that Cullen saw in the feline smiles and calculating glances radiating through whatever group he passed. Having grown accustomed to the familiar weight of his armor, he felt naked and exposed in the red and gold suit Leliana and Josephine had forced upon him, even with the mask. _They _were both in their element, of course, wearing full gowns, coordinated to match the outfit they'd picked for him, and socializing with the self-important nobles like the pros they were.

The Inquisitor was still in the courtyard, according to Blackwall, who looked as uncomfortable as Cullen felt when they passed. The Commander hadn't seen Taranari yet, the work of his fellow advisors he was sure, who'd shot him sly looks when he'd asked about her earlier in the carriage; his indignation when they began questioning his motives only made them break into a chorus of giggling. The memory made him blush; everyone had heard about their sparring match, and rumors were flying as to the brief incident that occurred at its close. Leliana and Josephine had been relentless in their teasing for that as well.

"Commander," Cassandra interrupted his musings.

He looked up, giving her his attention. The Seeker had adamantly refused to wear a dress simply to conform to Orlesian fashion, so she was dressed similarly to himself, though her pants were tighter and tucked into boots.

"There is a… situation with Sera," she said, sounding pained. After much debate, it had been decided that _all _of Taranari's team would accompany them to Halamshiral. The bickering that had ensued when she had tried to only take Cole, Vivienne, and Blackwall was such that Josephine, eager to depart, had stepped in and resolved the situation in that way, claiming the invitation from Duke Gaspard had been open ended. Cullen grit his teeth at the memory, certain he wouldn't be dealing with this if she'd had a little _patience._

"What did she do?" he groaned, allowing himself to be pulled away from a group of heavily adorned men and women who'd been edging uncomfortably close to his square of wall.

Cassandra grimaced, obviously searching for the words as she led him toward the ballroom. "I… she's been arguing with…"

Stepping through the entrance to the central room, waving away the elven servant who'd come forward to take his name (he'd been announced earlier with Josephine and Leliana), he spotted the reason for his summons. Sera was causing a scene, stabbing a finger into the chest of the man who was supposed to be heralding her entrance, a snarl forming on her face.

The Commander was quick to step in, grabbing Sera's elbow as she tensed for a punch. "Sodding cockdudder shite face!" the elf exclaimed in frustration, pulling against him, causing something in the satin tunic she was wearing to snap. She shot him a look that was half abashed, half furious. "This twitmongerharpytrough won't frigging announce me!"

Cullen struggled to find the patience to keep the sneer off of his face, turning to the wide-eyed Orlesian. "Is this true?"

"Commander," the man began in his droll accent, straightening his mask as he spoke. "Please. I am not so foolish as to insult a guest, but she will not give me her name, and she's torn up the announcement Lady Montilyet gave me."

At this revelation, Cullen turned his piercing glare back to the elf he was holding. "I told you," she tried to sound indignant, but started snickering as she spoke, "I am Mai Bhalsych of Korse!"

"Andraste's flaming knickers," Cullen groaned, dragging the hand that wasn't restraining Sera down his face in exasperation. Turning to the Orlesian, he spat, "She is Lady Sera, archer of the Inquisition." Then, spinning the elf and leaning in close to her scowling face, he growled in an undertone, "and she better _behave _before I have her taken back to the camp!"

Sera's eyes narrowed at his threat, but she merely shrugged him off, taking to the stairs as the man hesitantly heralded her in.

Cullen shook his head, already tired, making for an empty table by the wall, intent on keeping an eye on Sera until Taranari could take over.

By the time the Inquisitor was announced, he had been surrounded by the same preening group of Orlesians that had been watching him in the foyer, so he didn't see her until she elbowed her way to his side.

And _Maker have mercy, _did she look stunning.

Her deep red hair had been curled, and cascaded down her right shoulder in shining ringlets, better displaying her left ear which had been cuffed with an elaborate piece of jewelry. The golden gown Leliana and Josephine had chosen for her made her look taller, like an elven queen, with the face paint he knew was underneath the matching mask (there had been an argument) causing her eyes to glow even more than usual. And, while he knew that the dress she wearing was probably quite heavy, and to top that off she likely had her leather armor and some of her weapons hidden in her skirts, Cullen thought she looked unusually light, as if she might just float away if he didn't anchor her.

"Inquisitor," was all he managed to choke out.

Her lips, darker than normal, curled as she gave him an appraising look.

The cold sweat that broke out on the back of his neck at the sight only confirmed that his acknowledged attraction to her (no one could deny that she was beautiful, and he hadn't tried) and regard had grown into something more concerning. But he swallowed those feelings down, reminding himself of his duty.

"You look lovely, my lady," he added softly, hoping to avoid the notice of the surrounding tittering men and women.

Taranari's smile widened and a faint blush appeared on the skin below her mask, though she quickly waved him off. "Everyone looks fantastic in these clothes we can't afford." She'd been attempting to convince Josephine that custom coordinated suits and gowns were a waste of their coin; she'd failed.

Cullen chuckled at the memory. "And Lady Montilyet is positively glowing about it," he pointed out, nodding his head in Josephine's direction, where she was laughing merrily with her sister at something a young Comte had said. It had been a long time since he saw her enjoy herself so much.

But Taranari's expression darkened a fraction at his comment, and he saw a glint that he didn't recognize in her bright eyes. "Yes, I suppose she is." She tilted her head, looking at him like she was weighing her next words. "You should ask her to dance, Commander. You'd make such a striking pair, and the Orlesians would eat it up." Her smile was bright and teasing as ever, but he didn't think it was reaching her eyes behind the concealing mask.

He faltered a little at her words, unable to comprehend their significance, but quickly shook it off. "I don't dance," he said firmly.

There was a glimmer of relief behind her mask, but he also sensed a certain disappointment. He didn't understand it, though he couldn't deny that it filled him with a disturbing sense of hope.

"That is a shame then." She was looking at him again with undisguised fascination.

His smile was small and a little embarrassed. He found that she was becoming increasingly disarming to him; the Commander quickly turned into a bumbling schoolboy in her presence. He cleared his throat. "I wouldn't—"

"Oh but, _Commander_," a heavily accented Orlesian woman draped herself over him, or at least as much of him as she could reach, as even in her high shoes she was quite short. "You would really deprive us of your presence on the dance floor?"

Taranari looked down at her like she was an insect. Even the slightness of _her _frame and height rivaled that of this woman's, who pressed her exposed cleavage to Cullen's arm like that should have some effect on him. It only served to make him _more _uncomfortable than he already was.

The elf's eyes narrowed, taking in the woman's clothes, posture, and entourage, likely trying to gauge her status and the importance of remaining in her favor. Apparently deciding enemies were better avoided, she leaned in almost conspiratorially, saying, "Ah, but a woman of your many favors must have partners clamoring for your attention! Don't let my Commander's insistence on stoicism dampen your evening!"

Cullen couldn't help but notice the barely disguised emphasis she'd put on _my Commander, _or the hidden threat in her tone.

The small woman released his arm, looking both surprised and impressed by Taranari. The knowledge of restraint and cunning the elf had demonstrated couldn't help but garner the respect of the aristocrats.

"Why Inquisitor," she had a sharp smile fixed beneath her garish mask. "I don't believe we have been introduced." The woman held out her hand as if she expected the elven woman to kiss it, saying, "Lady Rameda Cerise of Val Foret."

Taranari took the offered hand, curtsying slightly over it as Josephine had taught her. "A pleasure, my lady. I recognized the Val Foret crest," she motioned to her mask, "and your reputation precedes you. Inquisitor Taranari Lavellan," she replied, the interest evident in her tone. "Have you been properly introduced to my Commander, Cullen Rutherford?" There was that slightly emphasized _my _again.

The elf turned in his direction, taking back control from Lady Cerise. He felt the blush creeping to his face as the women's attention returned to him.

"I have not, but I am charmed, of course," the Orlesian shot him a sultry smile that made him gulp uncomfortably. The ogling he'd been receiving since coming to this palace was acutely unnerving.

"It is an honor Madame," he choked out, stooping in a bow that drew his head far too close to the predatory woman. He thought he could hear a slight exhale of breath from Taranari, like she was silently laughing at him.

She did have some pity on him, however, taking the arm of Lady Cerise, saying, "Would you take a turn around the garden with me, Madame? I feel it is my duty to find you a more willing dancer among my people…"

Taranari's voice trailed off as she lead the leering lady away, but she shot a teasing smile over her shoulder at him before she sauntered out of sight.

* * *

"Andraste's sodding betrayal!" Tara cursed breathlessly, holding her knees as she recovered from the ambush.

The combination of the demon spewing rift the Grand Duchess Florianne (Duke Gaspard's sister who, as it turns out, was behind Corypheus' presence in the palace) had left with the contingent of Venatori that swarmed had almost been enough to overwhelm Tara and her small party.

Cole, Iron Bull, and Solas had accompanied her into the Royal Wing, the latter wearing the linen shirts and pants they'd worn beneath their gaudy finery, the former wearing what he always wore, wide brimmed hat and all. She'd reasoned, knowing they'd face opposition, that Iron Bull and Solas wore little to no armor on a regular basis and would be least hindered by its lack, and Cole was the only one already armored, as no one could remember seeing him anyway.

Leliana's people had ensured that their weapons were smuggled in, but that was difficult enough without trying to hide things like Blackwall's hulking breastplate, so Tara had to let the armor go for the most part and make due.

Because of this, for the first and last (she hoped) time, she thanked the maker for full skirts.

She'd worn her own leather greaves beneath her dress, and the chemise and vest had been wrapped around her swords and tied onto her thighs beneath her skirts. It had made it exceedingly hard to walk, but she felt more secure with them on her person. Though it did make things difficult when she entered a hostile area, to strip out of the gown and dawn her armor, only to have Solas' nimble fingers lacing the cursed thing back up again before she returned to the party.

As pretty as the gown made her feel, it was a headache she hardly needed. Josephine had insisted, however, that Tara could not wear the same outfit she'd allowed for Cassandra. The Orlesians would be appalled to see her appear so commonly, the leader of the Inquisition.

So she'd been dealing with it.

But upon defeating the last of the Grand Duchess' ambush, knowing that the Empress' life was about to be forfeit, she almost smiled at the realization that she didn't have time to put the damn thing back on again and would have to rush back into the party in her gore and blood spattered leather.

The faces of the court would be priceless…

"Come on, we have to _move,_" she urged her party on, leading them hurriedly back to the main ballroom, ordering Solas and Bull to follow once they'd donned their finery again. She did not want to alarm the nobles more than necessary with a half dressed, blood covered Qunari, putting the same logic to her elven apostate companion.

Cole remained at her elbow as she shoved her way through the party, shocking everyone who saw her.

Her carefully curled hair was actually somewhat _matted _with dried blood and demonic goop, and she knew she smelled of battle. Not to mention that she was wearing armor quite unsuitable for such a formal gathering, and her face paints were running with sweat.

Cullen's jaw practically dropped when he saw her, and she suppressed a grimace.

He'd been so impressed earlier by her girlish appearance; she lost a little respect for him when he balked at her then, thinking he was disappointed in the change.

"Maker, what happened?" he said, rushing to her side, and practically pressing her into an empty span of wall. She didn't think he noticed that the eyes of almost the entire court were surreptitiously fixed on them; he was caught up in concern.

She explained the situation with the Duchess in a hushed voice, trying not become distracted by the way his eyes roamed over her, checking to make sure she wasn't injured. "So what now?" he asked finally.

Tara's eyes darted over his shoulder, searching for an answer. She spotted Duke Gaspard with his sister across the dance floor, and was struck with an unexpected hatred for them both. She found that, in that moment, she completely understood Sera's never ending diatribe about little people, because the Duke and Duchess both had hurt so many, without an ounce of remorse. It kindled a rage inside her she had known few times before.

She hadn't known what to do about Orlais' leadership up until that point. Originally, they'd been intent upon saving Celine, but Leliana had pointed out that stability could be achieved with Gaspard or Briala as well. At first, Tara had been too shocked by the realization that the Empress' life was in her hands, that she had the power to pick the ruler of a country, to make a decision. But looking at the two scheming nobles now, she knew what damning evidence she would reveal, and knew it was time to stop being subtle.

"I'm going to talk to the Duchess."

Her voice left no room for discussion, and the fury in her eyes made Cullen trail off with his protest that Celine had already begun her speech.

He watched helplessly as she marched across the ballroom to confront the woman who'd just tried to kill her.


	10. Blackout

**Really off-canon chapter, but the game events didn't speak to me when I tried to write them. I like this better.**

**Looking forward to hearing what you all think! Thanks for the support so far! :)**

* * *

Chapter 10 – Blackout

Cullen had always thought of the Game as a perverse, underground network; it intimidated him, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to understand it, knowing he would never uncover all the secrets. For that reason, he'd initially been quite put off by Josephine and Leliana, when Cassandra recruited him to the cause; the women seemed so false, delighting in trickery. As he came to know them, he realized that, while that was partially true, their stories were far more complicated and their tendencies toward compassion just as labyrinthine.

Leliana, for instance, doted on the birds in her rookery, but also could order a throat slit without so much as flinching; the calculation in her face in those moments wounded Cullen, but he told himself it was necessary. It was her job.

But watching the way Taranari decimated the Grand Duchess, publicly humiliating her into limp desperation, unable to call on her supports, unwilling to _fight… _He found a new respect for the Game, at least, the way his elven Inquisitor harnessed it to her will.

He was standing back, admiring her, as Celine's guards dragged Florianne across the ballroom, when the room shattered in a flash of heat and power.

Cullen was thrown like a sack against the wall, at least five feet behind him, pieces of the marble railing he'd been resting against coming with him. A few shards of white rock embedded themselves under his arm, the larger chunks bludgeoning his sides and arms, which had thankfully come up to protect his face.

He silently cursed the absence of his armor.

_You should've been paying attention! _He berated himself, pushing painfully to his feet, loping in the direction he thought the attack had occurred. The room was a blackish haze, darkened by the absence of the multitude of lighted braziers, most of which were put out by the surge of air and debris, and he found himself walking mostly blind.

It had to have been magic, but he hadn't even noticed the mage. There were so many magic users in the room, and his focus had been on Taranari and Florianne, the first because she was magnificent, the second because she was still a potential threat. He had smuggled men into the chamber for the purpose of monitoring the others, possible agents in Celine's assassination, but there were few Templars among them, and none as well trained as himself. _He _was to blame for the magic attack that was loosed on the chamber, ripping through the area like a bomb.

But he hadn't _felt _anything; even in a crowd this size, there should have been ripples in his consciousness if a mage were pulling on enough mana to blow up half the room. Had he truly been _that _distracted that he hadn't noticed?

Groping his way through the smoke and plaster dust, registering that his hearing wasn't quite right, he began to form an idea of what had occurred.

He headed for the center of the chamber, drawing his sword as he realized one of the noises filtering through the fading buzzing in his ears were daggers digging into flesh. Another sense, sight, had also begun to recover, adapting to the gloom, using the thin moonlight creeping through the windows and the few, scattered torches still burning to distinguish shapes and color through the smoke.

When he came to the place he thought Florianne had been, he was greeted with a small crater in the, until moments ago, pristine floor, but the darker shape of a twisted corpse he'd expected was absent.

He had theorized that the Duchess had somehow set off some sort of super grenade he'd never seen before, perhaps with red lyrium, effectively committing suicide before they could hang her, and perhaps taking the Empress' life as well. But her body was gone.

Could it have been burned to dust?

Cullen staved off the thought that Taranari had been the closest person to her.

He needed to get a handle on the situation before he could let worry cloud his mind. The Orlesians were already muddling him enough; having regained their senses much more slowly than Cullen, they'd broken into a chorus of hysterical screaming, intermittently punctuated by the sound of bodies colliding in the haze.

He could no longer make out the wet plunge of the dagger in the din, though he flinched toward where he had last heard it, sweeping a hand in front of him to clear some of the debris out of his line of sight.

A mist of red through the dust cloud filled him with anxiety. Was it Taranari's brilliant hair, or blood, or both? Did he want to know?

He forced his feet ahead, hands tightening around his sword.

Finally, a dim picture fizzled through the smoke, and relief clutched at him like a beggar when he saw Taranari's back, curtained by matted red curls, upright and moving.

For an instant, the most important thing was that she was alive, unbroken, and he wondered that he could possibly feel so whole. But it was a fleeting completeness, and he soon regained control of his emotions, the practicality of a soldier taking over as he saw what she was _doing._

Her daggers, the shorter, nimbler set, were clutched in blood drenched hands, her hunched shoulders flexing as she stabbed and raked through a lump of charred flesh at her knees.

The Duchess.

Cullen couldn't see the elf's face from the angle he was approaching, but as he drew closer, he was able to make out a grinding, choking sound coming from her throat beneath the other chaotic noises. It rang with fury and heartache.

The dust was finally beginning to settle as he closed the distance between them, kneeling beside her. She made no acknowledgment of his presence, though he noticed the cuff she'd been wearing on her ear had ripped through the soft skin, hanging askew from both the cartilage it pierced and the skin of her scalp behind that which the other half of the jewelry had impaled. He realized she must have more injuries, but she didn't seem to care about them.

She was intent on grinding Florianne's corpse into a perverse meat loaf.

"Inquisitor," he called gently, though loudly to be heard over the cacophony around them, placing a hesitant hand on her arm.

She recoiled from his touch, a desperate anger in her features as she turned her gaze on him, daggers still embedded in the mangled body. The powders and creams Leliana and Josephine had adorned her face with were smeared with sweat, tears, blood, and plaster from the columns that had been damaged in the explosion, and out of her coated smudge of a face shone her piercing eyes, flinty with hurt and determination.

Cullen steadied himself with a breath at the sight of those eyes, which had awoken something within him he couldn't explain or address at that moment.

"Taranari." He used her name without thinking about it, without giving himself time to doubt. He needed to move through the cloud of emotions swirling across her face, and bring her back to him, where he could help her. He needed to call her by something that had _meaning _for her, beyond some petty title she refused to simply live by, however much she deserved it.

The twinge of shame at addressing her so informally came later, when her eyes weren't his light source, shining on him even in anger.

But they softened at his call, liquefying into the more familiar amber warmth he was accustomed to, and spilling over with tears he was definitely _not _familiar with. Yet how could he protest when she shakily relinquished her daggers to him, and melted into his arms?

Though the haze around them was thinning, no one was near enough to see them crouching in the darkness, and even if they had been, he couldn't have pushed her away. Instead, he dropped her daggers on the charred stone and clutched her to his chest, not giving a damn that the shards of marble embedded in his torso were screeching with protest or that the blood coating her leather armor was soaking through his shirt. The rightness of her being so close was almost overwhelming then, but there was a nagging thought that kept him grounded enough to pay attention to the word in her quite sobs.

"Varric," she spit the name out with an anguish that confirmed a deep fear he'd been holding since he regained his feet after the explosion. One of their own had been mortally wounded (or worse) in the blast.

Trying to be gentle, but acting on an urgency that trumped her current comfort, he grabbed her face and forced her to meet his intense gaze. "Where?"

Tears flowed silently down her face. "Solas is trying to heal him, but he won't—" she choked on the words, "I know he's d—"

Cullen pressed a more sympathetic hand to her mouth, stopping her from speaking the cruel word. "Where?" he demanded again, this time more calmly.

There was an old, worn tragedy in her expression as she pointed behind and to the left of her.

* * *

Tara watched Cullen's back as he trotted towards her friend's body.

_Corpse, _she thought, pulling her knees to her chest in the emptiness Cullen had left behind. She felt hollow, numb, as the tears ran silently off her chin, more a reflex now then a product of emotion.

Varric had been on his way to the landing where she'd stood while confronting Florianne to collect Cole, at her signal, who'd shadowed her through the ballroom as backup. She did not want him accompanying her when she spoke to the Empress, however, lest he choose that moment to reveal himself, and Varric was her go-to to keep an eye on the boy, as he'd become a sort of role model to him.

But then her communicative looks shared with Varric turned into a light show that cracked her head against the stone railing separating her body from the upper level of the ballroom, and Cole was dragging her across the floor, down the steps, trying to revive her, taking her to the spot by the stairs where a huge piece of marble railing had fallen on… And the boy was crying helplessly, humanly. Solas said he'd _felt _his anguish and come.

The elven mage removed the railing with magic, but the wounds… What could he do to uncrush a body? To bring back breath that left it?

Solas did not seem as distressed as she was, however, which made her furious. He kept calmly telling her that the dwarf would recover. He told her to quiet herself, and ordered Cole to aid him. He told her Varric was still alive, still breathing.

And what did she know about healing medicine?

_Maybe he will be okay, _she thought longingly.

But the sickly pallor and the way the left side of his chest was just… caved, extinguished that hope. She had seen it even through the darkness – his white, slack face, peppered with stubble was burned into the back of her eyelids

She kept flashing back to the dream of her mother's death, the dream she _thought _was memory, and had a horrid certainty that she was about to lose someone else. It felt similar: the same desperation, the same haunting ache sneaking into her bones.

But she had to know for sure_, _she decided, dragging herself upright and stumbling forward. She still felt woozy and not fully aware from the explosion, but she followed the path Cullen took with steady enough steps.

_Well_, they kept her vertical for the most part.

Tara quickly forgot what she'd left behind on the ballroom floor with her daggers, as well as the blood that stained her up to the elbows and permeated her leather's warm, tannery scent with a sharp, sickening tang. The blood and the image would haunt her later, as she attempted to scrub it from her nailbeds and conscience.

For the moment, she had to focus all of her energy on walking, as each step was becoming more difficult. She'd only made about a dozen before Cullen doubled back, a hopeful gleam to his face that made her instantly stiffen in distrust.

"He really is going to be alright." He offered her a small but sincere smile that made her want to flinch away from him; everything was too raw and as the dust filtered from the air, even the pale, hazy darkness felt bright and harsh. Cullen's golden hair, caked with ash and dried blood, seemed blinding; she couldn't look at him for too long.

When he'd found her… She had intended to find Florianne dead, but the woman had only been brutally mutilated, half her body shredded and viscous around her surviving parts. Pained breaths still fluttered through her, her pale eyes wide and blood shot fixed on Tara's face, and the gaping mouth formed pleas of mercy, death.

Tara had given her what she asked for.

The problem had been, she couldn't stop giving. The fury that swelled within her at the woman's audacity to ask for kindness in death was what spurred her hand, not empathy, and the desperate loss she felt in having seen Varric's body, broken, smaller than she'd ever seen it look before, drove her to keep cutting.

Cut away the evil. Cut away the darkness. Cut away the anchor on her hand that made everything so much _harder. _Cut away Corypheus, who had turned the world into a place she couldn't trust. Give the world a clean break, the red lyrium that swallowed the future she'd seen in Redcliffe a sad memory, obliterated.

Cullen had seen her like that, half out of her mind, and had summoned her back. She was ashamed of her behavior, and that she'd so simply thrown her grief into his chest. She cringed from the blood on his clothes that she'd left, stains from her weakness.

"Is he awake?" the cautious question was directed to the floor, quieter than they'd spoken before, as the nobles seemed to have regained some sense, no longer forcing them to yell.

Cullen drew closer, encouraged by her speech. "Barely."

She noticed that he was limping slightly and favoring his left side – he'd been injured too.

He had apparently noticed how she was shaking, because he offered his right arm in support, wrapping it around her waist at her consent. They hobbled like that for a few steps, but her injuries were making even that difficult, as determination and adrenaline waned. Finally, Cullen scooped her off her feet, wincing at the pain in his abdomen, and quickly ferried her to where Varric lay, surrounded by several figures, one of which was a raven haired woman Tara had met earlier in the evening.

Celine's arcane advisor. Morrigan.

"Well, I am happy to see you alive," the sharp featured mage said by way of greeting. "I am hopeful we will find Celine in as favorable a state."

Tara had to resist the urge to snort. She wouldn't exactly call her current state _favorable_, despite the muted pleasure she felt at being in Cullen's arms.

A shaky breath drew her attention, and she struggled to her feet, letting Cullen leave his hand at her waist to steady her. She couldn't deny that his presence was unthinkably comforting, and she wanted to keep him near more than she actually needed his support.

She returned for a moment to her trek through the snow the night Haven was attacked.

Tara had drug herself up and down the mountainside through the blizzard, soaked and shivering, unable to feel her hands, clutching them under her arms hoping she wouldn't lose her fingers. Or more.

She'd collapsed with relief and exhaustion when she heard the voices of her companions, having done all she could, expecting the embrace of the icy blanket she'd fallen into many times already. Cullen had caught her before her head hit the ground; he'd wrapped his ever present fur cloak around her, and the warmth of his wide chest and his scent, surrounding her almost instantly, had soothed her into unconsciousness before they even reached the camp. They all thought she'd fainted; she knew the truth.

It was shortly after that, that she'd developed the complex fear of him, cringing from the memories he brought back, but in that moment, he'd been the strength and comfort she needed.

And as she approached Varric's prone form, figures parting to let her pass, Cullen was her strength and comfort again.

It scared her how much she wanted, and sometimes even _needed, _to rely on him. She couldn't afford to think that way, not when she could so easily lose him. If anything, this experience with Varric had taught her how dangerous her connections to others could be to herself and their cause.

Though the dwarf was, in fact, going to recover ("Took you long enough, Red.") she couldn't shake that feeling of imminent loss.

"I told you it was not as dire as you assumed," Solas said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder as she kneeled down beside them and gripping Varric's hand gratefully. The elf's knowing eyes were studying her again, trying to decipher her grief, her loss of control. She knew he'd never seen her lose control before; she'd been very careful of it.

Cole was unusually silent stting opposite her, his pale, nimble hand wrapped around Varric's rough, hairy one, staring down at the fading bruises and lacerations that had a few minutes ago, threatened his friend's life. She'd seen the fear in him earlier and sympathized. The boy, or whatever he _really_ was, had lost so many he cared for already; she was glad he didn't have to lose Varric too.

"Thank you, Solas," she said quietly, her fingertips ghosting over his hand on her shoulder.

The elf dipped his head, removing his hand. "It was not entirely my doing, Lethallan. The—"

"_I," _Morrigan interrupted, leaning into the cluster of conversation, "helped him to save your friend."

Tara nodded thoughtfully. "Then my thanks to you as well."

"And mine," Varric groaned, trying to sit up, eyes rolling. "Where's Bianca?" Solas' firm hand on his chest held him back. Of course he would worry about his beloved crossbow at a time like this.

"Do not ruin my work, dwarf," the mage said coldly, glaring at him. Tara noticed that he, too, looked exhausted.

The sound of steel meeting steel and a ripple of Orlesian shouts from the foyer silenced any further conversation, and her currently gathered people were quickly split up, one group heading toward the sound of fighting, the other to where Celine had been at the time of the attack.

She sent Cullen with the first party (though it pained her to order him away, and he looked almost like he wanted to protest), made of a few Inquisition soldiers that had been smuggled into the palace, leading the second herself, consisting of Cole, and the strange raven haired woman, Morrigan. She left Solas behind to defend Varric, if need be.

Cole offered her his shoulder as support as they made their way back across the dark ballroom, which had grown eerily silent, and up the stairs to the dais Celine had been speaking from.

Thankfully, her body was not there, and neither was anyone else's. Actually, the entire area they searched was devoid of people.

"Curious," Morrigan observed, to a silent nod from the elven Inquisitor.

"I propose we join the others. I have a feeling we'll find Celine with her people," Tara observed.

And as they exited the dark haze of the ballroom, that was exactly what they saw: Duke Gaspard, armed with his sword, and the Empress and Briala armed with bows, fighting the Venatori Florianne had left behind alongside Cullen and his men. The unarmed, cowering Orlesians and elven servants were huddled together behind their protectors, oddly quiet as they watched their leaders defend them. It was something strange and magnificent to behold, in a palace which had been consistently demolishing Tara's faith in the empire throughout the evening.

Reaching for her daggers, she realized she'd left them behind in the ballroom. All she had was a small hunting knife. She shrugged off Cole's support, steeling herself to join the battle nevertheless, and take a weapon off the first Venatori she killed, but Morrigan's hand on her forearm stopped her.

"No," the mage hissed. "Your Commander is enough and the battle is almost won. Let them save their country."

Seeing what the shrewd woman was _really_ saying, that a moment like this had the potential to unite a warring empire without further bloodshed made her retreat back into the shadows as asked.

Perhaps the chevalier and elven usurpers need not be silenced after all.


	11. Sleepless

**I am so sorry about the two week intermission! I've been so swamped with papers and things that I haven't had time for fun writing :( **

**BUT to make it up to you all, this chapter's nice and long, and I will have another chapter posted in a few days (as I've had that mostly written for a while).**

**And again, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the favorites and follows! Enjoy the chapter and please review! :)**

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Chapter 11 – Sleepless

Cullen woke slowly, his head aching, though his side where he'd been peppered with marble during the explosion was oddly painless. He blinked blearily, trying to take stock of his surroundings.

The sheets and blankets that were pulled up to his uncovered waist were oddly silken (nothing like the coarse, hardy fabrics that adorned his mattress back at Skyhold), and overhead there was a canopy of velvet drapery, adorned with little, wire suns. On one side and wrapping around the foot of the bed, a curtain matching the above fabric had been drawn; the only opening revealed little more than a heavily carved oaken door, and the trunk he'd packed for the journey.

Cullen supposed this must be some sort of guest room in the Winter Palace, though he couldn't remember falling asleep there the previous night… The last thing he recalled was the haphazard dinner they'd eaten after a day of performing burial rights for the few dead and arguing about who among them should be healed first. Then, smiling at Taranari as she came towards him with two glasses of wine, placing one in his hands as she took his empty plate…

He growled when he realized what had happened – she'd given him a sleeping draught so she could have him healed, though he'd insisted he was _fine._

Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, he pushed off the frilly bedcovers and sat up, looking around for his clothes and armor. The chest sitting by the bed contained everything he wasn't wearing at the time of the ball, but what happened to his boots? And his sword? After a thorough search of the room, he was certain they were missing.

With a sigh, he began to dress, strapping on his armor in such irritation that he kept messing up and pinching himself at the junctions of the plates. Cursing, he donned his customary fur duster and headed for the side door by the bed, knocking once before barging into the adjoining room. It was a small wash room, marble basins sparklingly clean in the morning sunlight streaming in from the high window, and a wide bathtub filled with cloudy water. His missing things were not present, though he spotted a door opposite the one he was standing in, suggesting an adjoining bedroom.

Just as he was making to close his own door and search for a hallway, its counterpart flew open, revealing Taranari. Her deep red hair was a frenzy around her face and shoulders, her arms (one of which was in a sling) wrapped over her chest holding up the towel that was her only garment.

He felt his whole face flush, though his body made no move to turn away. She looked beautiful.

Her amber eyes registered her surprise for only a split second, before her face burst into a sunny smile. "Leave it to me to underestimate you! I was sure you'd be out all day!"

She turned from his still stunned expression to call over her shoulder. "Nurina, would you please go find someone to fetch Commander Cullen's boots and sword? He looks quite naked without them," here she winked at him, causing him to fidget uncomfortably, and he heard the incomprehensible murmurs of another woman's voice from the room behind her. "No, no, don't worry about the bath. I'll be fine." Apparently the other woman disagreed, judging by the way Taranari rolled her eyes, puffing a strand of hair out of her face. "_Fine, _I will patiently await your return then."

Cullen was gripping the doorway with unprecedented force, trying to distract himself from the shapely curve of the elven Inquisitor's collarbone, as well as how easy it would be to rip that towel away from her, revealing other shapely curves. His inappropriate desires shamed him, especially since she was clearly injured, and he drug his eyes away from her body to the glittering floor tiles. He knew how little he deserved to look at her like this.

"Cullen," she said his name softly, beckoning his gaze back to her own. She rarely used his first name (though she _did _use it, unlike himself, the incident in the ballroom notwithstanding), and when she did, he learned to pay attention.

"Yes?"

Her eyes grew both mischievous and contrite at the same time. "I'm sorry I drugged you."

His trademark smirk snaked its way through his embarrassment, and he chuckled. "It's quite alright, Inquisitor."

"And," she faltered, working her fingers over a length of her towel in unease. "And for the ballroom. I promise that won't—"

"Taranari," he interrupted, using her name again to silence her. He hated the self-abusing shame in her voice; it didn't belong there. Her warm eyes flitted up to his, looking through the thick lashes. "The only thing you have to apologize for is for making me have this conversation with you while you're half naked," he blurted, not realizing what he was saying until it was too late. He'd been trying to lighten the mood, but now, he just put a hand over his face to stop the embarrassment from continuing.

She laughed. "What?"

"Seriously, it's distracting," he mumbled into his palm, knowing that she could see the blush even in his ears.

Her laughter brushed against him like the wind, light and calming. "Well sorry to disappoint, but I can't exactly get my clothes back on by myself…" It sounded almost like a request.

He peeked through his fingers at her, confused. "W-what?" A bit of the stutter he'd had back before Templar training slipped into his voice.

Her teasing smile widened into a grin, and she motioned with her good arm to the sling and then down to the wrapped knee he hadn't noticed before. "Apparently, I ripped several important somethings in my shoulder in the blast," she said a bit ruefully.

"And the knee?" He dropped his hand, spreading his arms to hold the door frame again.

"Er… I think I sprained that trying to walk with the concussion." Her face turned a bit sheepish and she clutched the towel up closer to her chin, unfortunately for Cullen revealing more of her toned thighs.

He bit back a pained breath, trying to focus on the subject at hand. "Concussion?" His voice was strained, a little higher than it had been.

"They healed that," she said quickly.

"Why didn't they heal the rest?"

She smiled – wide, fake, and placating. "I told the healers one lyrium potion and they had to quit on me?"

He pushed out of the door way, his socked feet thudding angrily against the tile until his chest was a few inches from hers. A small shiver went through her; he imagined she must be cold standing there without any clothes… He cleared his throat, trying to do the same for his mind.

"Didn't we agree on _three _lyrium potions for serious injuries?" It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to stay on subject and hold onto the anger he should be feeling. Her eyes were braising him with their warmth and he found himself yearning to be burnt.

"I didn't think it was that se—"

"Inquisitor," he growled.

Suddenly her playful expression went slack, and she pulled back into her bedroom. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of her bloodstained leathers laid out in the corner by her trunk upon which her dress from the other night was piled.

"What? What's wrong?" He could tell he'd offended her.

"Nothing, nothing."

"I—" He wanted to press the issue but he saw how she was retreating, and he didn't want her to leave. "So what did you do with my boots and sword?" he asked, grasping for something that would get her talking again.

Pride flickered in her eyes. "I knew I'd never get another opportunity like this to check your equipment…"

"And?" His mouth quirked up at the corner. He had her.

"I had your boot soles replaced and your sword polished and sharpened, and when we get back I'm getting you a new shield and having Harritt fix those plate bindings," she said quickly, a hint of a smile in her voice.

His smirk widened. "Oh, are you?"

"Yep."

"And what if I like the shield I have?" he asked, taking a step towards her.

She backed up in sync with him, though her step was half the size of his. "Then I guess I'll have to take it by force," she teased, leaning closer with her words.

Footsteps stopped him from replying, though his eyes were smoldering into hers. He felt inappropriately close to her for company, so he stepped back again as a middle aged elven woman, Nurina he assumed, wearing the white day mask of an Orlesian servant and a long, blue house dress entered the room. One of her slender hands clutched his familiar black boots, freshly polished, and over her bent shoulder was the belt and scabbard of his longsword.

He rushed forward in relief, receiving the items with sincere thanks to the harried looking woman.

Taranari watched him with a warm sort of distance, evaluating the interaction, then she turned to Nurina and said, "Please, take some rest. I will manage."

The woman's pale mouth pursed with stubbornness, and Cullen wondered if Taranari knew how similar the expression was to those he'd seen on her own lips. "With all due respect my lady, no, you won't."

Cullen had a small coughing fit to cover his laughter at that comment. Taranari was tangling with the wrong servant; Celine's head of house had chosen well when she gave the Inquisitor Nurina.

"Well, that's my cue to leave," he sighed, meeting Taranari's eyes with undisguised mirth. "Please excuse me ladies." He dipped his head and turned to go.

"What, you're not going to help me bathe?" she called after him, clear sarcasm in her voice.

Even knowing that she was messing with him, Cullen froze, blush creeping from his chest to the crown of his head. "I-I d-don't think," he stammered, unsure why he was replying and unable to get the image of her naked body out of his mind.

"Relax, Commander. I know all about your vows of _chastity._" She said it like a joke, but there was a note of bitterness underneath her tone.

_Is that what she really thinks about me? _He wondered.

Nurina clucked her tongue, shaking her head. "I can draw you a bath after my lady, Commander," she said, as if to distract him from Taranari's comment.

"Thank you, but no, I have much to see to since," he narrowed his eyes at Taranari, "_someone _drugged me to sleep when I had no time for rest."

The redheaded elf worked the front of her towel between her fingers, a small smile pointed to the floor. "I already _apologized _for that."

He walked to his own room, chuckling, and throwing, "Enjoy your bath, Inquisitor," over his shoulder.

* * *

They spent a week at the Winter Palace, helping to cleanup and repair the building that was the seat of Orlais' government, as well as reorganize the system of power itself. Tara spent hours conferencing with Celine, Gaspard, and Briala, successfully wheedling and strong arming the three into a shaky alliance, only made possible by Florianne's attack, which managed to make them more receptive to the needs and well-being of their people. No one expected it to _last _of course, but Tara understood that nothing she did to stabilize Orlais would due in the long term. That wasn't how their society worked.

The Orlesians thrived on sensation and power, and that often came with chaos. Tara needed peace, however tenuous, to survive long enough to defeat Corypheus, and with this arrangement she was certain she'd get it.

The only issue left for her to deal with was the question of Morrigan.

While Solas, Dorian, Cullen, and Tara were working with her to determine exactly what had caused the explosion in the palace, and if it was a weapon that could be replicated in future encounters, the mage had made a formal (and very enticing) offer to sign on with the Inquisition. She would serve as both another expert on ancient magic and a representative for Celine's interests with them, two things which they definitely needed. Solas' knowledge alone had not been enough to reveal Corypheus' secrets, and Orlais required a more formal, permanent presence at Skyhold, as Tara was leaving a legion of spies, soldiers, and diplomats in the Winter Palace to keep an eye on things there; it would be rude not to at least try to maintain a semblance of equality in their partnership.

Despite the logic, this proposal bruised Solas' ego tremendously. "She is not as she seems," he told Tara during a closed door discussion on Morrigan's joining them.

"And what does she seem?"

"An eccentric mage, I presume."

Here, Tara had cocked a deprecating eyebrow. "Make no mistake, Solas, I don't believe she's anything so tame."

That had calmed him somewhat, but he still vehemently opposed her presence.

Leliana's perspective had been slightly more helpful: "Morrigan… oh she was wild as her homeland when I knew her! Even with Gwendolyn, I mean the Hero of Fereldan," this she said with mild distaste, "guiding and befriending her, she was much rougher than she is now. I cannot help but be worried that her edges have been polished smooth, for now she knows more and reveals less. And she revealed very little then."

_That _account gave Tara some pause, more than Solas' visceral dislike. Though she respected him, she couldn't turn away a source of information like Morrigan without a reasonable cause. But even with Leliana's caution, she didn't think she could refuse the woman. There was _so much _they didn't know about Corypheus and his army; even the hope of getting more answers seemed worth the risk.

The real question at that point was whether to proceed back to Skyhold, as neither Morrigan nor the Inquisition's people had determined the cause of the explosion, and Celine didn't want her arcane advisor leaving without first giving answers. Tara wasn't too happy about the idea either, knowing they were facing an opponent with such capabilities, but she also needed to move her force out of the Winter Palace, before rumors began flying about their extended presence. Varric had been recovered enough to travel for several days, and she had been more than antsy tiptoeing around in finery and curtsying to everyone during that time.

However, they needed to know if the explosion was some sort of lyrium bomb, as Cullen suggested, or something else entirely. Morrigan had confirmed the Commander's suspicion that it wasn't a spell, as neither of them had sensed a mage draw on their mana, suggesting a weapon. But _what? _More importantly, how did Florianne detonate it while being dragged off?

These were questions Tara knew very well might never be answered, but she was hesitant to sidestep them too quickly. The image of Varric's broken body was still burning in her mind (she was convinced no amount of time spent seeing him alive and well would dislodge it) and had brought on nightmares just as vivid as those she'd had about Therinfal Redoubt.

Having startled awake from one of these dreams, Tara stared at the parquetted ceiling of her temporary chamber, dusted by moonlight, as she weighed her options.

_Nothing is ideal anymore, _she thought bitterly, sparing a glance for the door that would lead to Cullen's room. She knew that it was foolish to situate herself so close to him, but Leliana and Josephine had practically tossed her trunk on the bed when they found out Cullen had been moved next door. Tara could have protested, but what would that do but confirm that her feelings were getting more troublesome? Her two female advisors were already suspicious and giggly enough – no need to give them more fuel.

But his nearness (and despite her bipolar denial she readily admitted this) was becoming unbearable.

The way he'd looked at her when he caught her in the towel, eyes pained and elated at the same time, every muscle tense, coiled, like he might rip it from her at any second… It had made her pulse _race._

Then back to the formal "Inquisitor" that sounded nothing like a lover, barely even a friend. It was like a slap in the face compared to the warm way he'd spoken her name, like a caress, like an intimate secret between them.

_How _could she remain in denial now? She couldn't call this fear. She wasn't cringing from him. No, he was setting her on fire, and she _liked _it.

_But it's hopeless, _she reaffirmed, trying to turn to more practical thoughts. His sense of duty to the Inquisition would never allow for such impropriety. She was merely an indulgence for him, a craving in moments of weakness, if anything at all.

"Aghhhhhhhrrrrrr," she groaned, rolling onto her stomach in frustration. It certainly wouldn't help her move past this if he kept looking at her like he had been the past few days – smoldering, longing, _infuriating _stares. They filled her with hopes she shouldn't have, fantasies that sprang to life as she was lying alone in bed.

Her mind would never turn off, she realized. _I'll never sleep again._ What with the Inquisition and Cullen's eyes and Sera causing a ruckus everywhere she went and Josephine and Leliana teasing her about the Commander and…

Suddenly her eyes, wide and staring angrily at the wall, began to drift closed. It was as if some presence was pulling her down, down into the Fade.

"Goodnight, Inquisitor," she heard the barest whisper, almost her imagination, and said a silent "thank you" to Cole.

* * *

Solas watched her from a distance, slipping through the Fade mists like a lithe ghost, her vibrant hair allowing him to easily follow. He had seen part of her nightmare about Varric, and had asked Cole to help her to a more peaceful rest. Now, he marveled as the Fade shaped around her, bending out of her way like it was attuned to her will; he loved watching her do this. She was a natural, perhaps by birth, perhaps because of the anchor. Either way, it was incredibly entrancing.

A house erected around her, small but warmly furnished, a fire in the hearth and a spicy scent on the air. She spread wide windows with flowers growing round the sills, and a staircase leading to a second story. There were windows there as well, and dappled sunlight streaming in through the branches of the white birch tree sheltering the back of the house.

Taranari leaned out of one of these, and called to a small golden haired child with warm amber eyes who was playing in the moss on the exposed tree roots. The little girl looked up with a grin, pushing up from the dirt and running to the front entrance, hair tossing in the wind.

Solas' bemused smile froze when he saw her ears, dainty and slightly elongated, but _round._

It was then he noticed the horse trotting up to the homestead, the long fur cloak its rider wore over his armor, the golden hair.

Taranari scooped up the little girl, leaning in the front doorway with the tittering child on her hip and a look of bliss on her usually strained face, waiting as Cullen dismounted, as he came forward to greet his family.

Solas felt a pit of disgust twist in his stomach. What was this trivial artifice she'd created? Was _this _really what happiness looked like to her? A domestic cottage?

The Taranari he knew was not so tame or predictable. She shone in battle, in leadership; she wasn't a demure housewife, the elven consort of a human knight. Solas felt betrayed by her subconscious, by the role it revealed her in.

He turned away, angrily, retreating to another area of the Fade, where emotions weren't quite so raw.

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**Check back soon for more!**


	12. Hawke

**Thanks again for all the praise and etc. This story lives off of you, lovely readers!**

**Hope you appreciate the extra long chapter to make up for the late updates! Also, this chapter properly introduces my Hawke in all her glory. Hope you love her! Oh and for Anders haters, I am personally much more of a fan of the Fenris romance, but for this storyline, I wanted to make it a little more complicated. We'll see where it goes ;D**

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Chapter 12 – Hawke

Morrigan convinced Celine that she could just as easily study the possible causes of the explosion from Skyhold (impressed by a letter Dagna had sent her on the subject and eager to see if the Arcanist could help her solve the mystery) and the Inquisition swiftly departed from Orlais, everyone eager to be home.

A little less than a week brought them to Skyhold.

A wave of relief swept over Tara when she reentered the gates, and though Varric was a little worse off for the journey (they'd taken him to the small infirmary for further healing) the elven Inquisitor was pleased to see most of her people felt similarly. They all breathed a collective sort of sigh – shoulders relaxing, fists unclenching from reigns – as they settled back into their home.

A messenger brought word that Hawke had returned that morning, having seen their approach, and had been given a room where she now waited for Tara. The Inquisitor had known the woman was planning on camping in the mountains nearby, waiting on word from her Warden contact, Stroud, while they dealt with the business in Orlais. Tara hoped her sudden presence didn't mean that their dawdling at the Winter Palace had thrown plans out of motion with the Wardens.

Tara hurried to the guest wing of the fortress, knocking on the door and entering at Hawke's soft, "Come in."

She stepped into the small room, seeing the other woman turned from the door, staring out the small window, her back stiff. "Varric is injured?" Hawke rasped; there were notes of panic in the question.

Tara quickly explained what happened at the palace as well as the current circumstances. "The journey took a toll on him, but really, he's fine," she assured her.

Hawke tucked her hair behind her ear – brown, lusterless.

It seemed a lot about her could be described like that now.

She still laughed in a way Tara understood, because she understood Varric, and the kind of friendships he bred. The dwarf drew and gave loyalty he'd never admit; Hawke basked in it when she could, and the elf saw it in her eyes – it became her primary relief. Everything else had grown hard and brittle like her hair, the light in her eyes aged beyond her years.

Cullen told Tara once that Hawke looked wilted. "She used to lead people like you do, and she shone with it," he had said, and Tara tried not to blush at the hidden compliment he hadn't realized he was giving. "She's just going through the motions now."

She recognized the truth of his words later.

Upon the first meeting with Hawke there had been an excitement between them, an understanding that brewed between kindred spirits, two women in impossible positions. They'd laughed with the impossibility, and called each other by their names, tossing away titles they didn't feel they'd earned and had never coveted. Hawke had been steel then, of course, but she'd been _shining._

Now, Tara realized that had more to do with Hawke's relief at seeing Varric again, in meeting someone as hopelessly looked up to as herself. The more Tara saw of the woman, the more she saw what was _missing, _that Varric could only fill for a few moments with laughter and friendship before the haunted look returned to the back of her eyes. She'd hidden it expertly, but Tara recognized the darkness behind the mask; she knew that play too well not to see it on someone else.

The Inquisitor wondered if it had to do with the mage. The man Varric rarely referred to by his name – he called him blondie on the scarce occasions he'd spoken of him. Tara had read his story, however.

_Hawke's _story.

In it, Varric described how she fell in love with the apostate, his underground hospital, his spirit possession, his vengeance; danger and compassion in equal parts, rage warring against his need to heal and protect.

Anders.

Rage had won.

Tara didn't know how much of Varric's account was actually true. It was common knowledge that an apostate had decimated the Chantry in Kirkwall, the final straw beginning the mage and Templar rebellions, but it was also common knowledge the Varric spun stories like spiders spun webs. And both were exceedingly complicated and full of gaps.

"Thank you for your kindness, Taranari," Hawke said at last, a clear dismissal from her borrowed room. But her eyes, a pale, clear sort of green like the pond Tara had met Blackwall beside, were not unfeeling enough to make the elf sure she wanted to be left.

"Hawke."

The woman turned her head from the window she'd been fixed on since Tara's entrance. There was hope buried behind the mask; Tara certainly couldn't leave now.

She had questions anyway. Plenty enough to distract Hawke from her demons for a while.

* * *

It started the way it always did.

"How much of Varric's account is actually true?" Taranari asked, slipping into a chair adjacent to the window seat Hawke was perched on.

Hawke was relieved that the questions were old. This was a dance she could do, that she didn't mind doing to pass the time and pass whatever knowledge her life could give to the red haired elf who shouldered an arguably larger burden.

She quirked her lips at her elven counterpart, sliding her gaze back to the window. "What did _he _tell you?" An old, old line. She used to recite it if she thought she was about to lie for him. Then, when she realized she didn't always _have _to lie for him, she merely said it to know what he'd said, so she could laugh about it later.

Taranari chewed her lip. She looked so much younger than Hawke thought she should, and Hawke's mind wondered back to Kirkwall. What did _she_ look like all those years ago, when she first wondered off the boat, father and sister-less, her only allies her cantankerous brother and a severe, widowed swordswoman?

_Thank the Maker for Varric. _The thought was almost compulsive now. Through everything, Varric was like her heartbeat, keeping her alive, forcing her to smile even when she hated the sound of her own laugh, hated the feeling of laughing.

And she knew with certainty that when he went, she would as well. Hawke could only hope that the reverse was not true; she wanted Varric to have everything, everything she'd lost she wanted for him, even if she never got to see him get it.

It gave her hope that he had Taranari. If he could let her in, she could help him sand off the sharp, painful parts again, as Hawke once had. As it was, his acclaimed best friend was little use to him now in that regard; she'd been using him like a numbing potion for far too long.

"He said…" The redhead smiled a little as she remembered. "He said, 'A writer is given some liberties. We can't just report the cold facts. Where is the poetry in that?'"

Hawke laughed, barely an exhale of breath. She rarely _really _laughed when he wasn't around. "That sounds like him. Dodging."

Taranari smiled warmly, and Hawke noticed that she was beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that might have once meant something to her. She might have tried to convince her to spar with Fenris, in some sick hope that they would hit it off and have beautiful elven babies with her fiery hair and his fathomless eyes. Hawke had always been fascinated by Fenris' eyes – they held the world in judgment, they condemned, they were as unyielding as the master he once served and yet… She knew there was a depth to them that took in so much more.

She loved him most for that depth, she thought. Even when she couldn't forget the disdain, the hatred that those eyes had expressed during their years as companions. Even when she tortured herself with the way those eyes had held her with impossible tenderness after Carver joined the Templars, the understanding there that Anders' raging could never outmatch. But the moment was so fleeting she didn't believe it to be real, and she'd already made her choice, however little she'd known it at that time.

She refused to tell Varric how much she missed Fenris' scathing glare. He had kept in contact with Varric, not her, and she knew very well why. But she couldn't think about that with other people around, she had pretenses to uphold.

"What do you want to know, exactly?"

That was always Hawke's response when people began asking about Varric's book. She couldn't very well tell them _everything. _The book was long enough already.

Taranari rolled her shoulders in the beginnings of a reconsidered shrug. "Any glaring inaccuracies that stick out off the top of your head?"

There was something in the elf's large golden eyes that told Hawke she had a very specific question rattling around. Hawke would drag it out of her eventually.

A hand went to the side of Hawke's head as she considered the other woman's question. "You'd be surprised to know that most of it is actually pretty close to the truth. He pads the sod out of it, sure. We were never that funny or that crass, and the dragon was _barely _big enough to be considered such, but then, he's right. It _is _a _story._"

She was looking out the window again, watching the sun set over the glorious mountains surrounding Skyhold, but she could feel Taranari's eyes burrowing into her. "Is it easier to think of it that way?" the elven woman asked, trying to sound offhand. "Instead of as your life?"

Hawke was hit with an overwhelming association. Her sister's softly voiced questions, probing whatever issue lay under the surface, solving her problems without even forcing her to talk about them. It made her heart constrict and swell simultaneously, for as much as she missed Bethany, she had always wanted Varric to have known her.

It warmed parts of her that had been frozen for years to know that a piece of who her sister had been had found him.

"Yes." She replied simply because the answer wasn't important; the question was the important part.

The redheaded rogue blinked at her several times, as if trying to decide something. Finally, she said, "And what about Anders?"

Taranari cringed with her, as the name drilled a quiet hole through Hawke. It didn't hurt as much as it once had, and there was this desperate _need _to talk about him that had sprung up since she got over her initial grief, which was relieved to have him brought up. Still, she hadn't expected that question yet.

But this woman cut to the heart of things – she saw that now.

A long exhale preceded her explanation, as she tried to comprehend what exactly Taranari was asking her. Then she realized what she would be asking, what she had asked the King/Alistair all those years ago.

"You want to know if it was worth it."

It wasn't a question.

Taranari blanched. "How—"

"We're both powerful women," she said with a rueful smile. "And we've all had our hearts broken at least once. We're stubborn and strong enough not to let it happen again, if we choose to. I wondered the same thing, once."

The elf looked both embarrassed and fascinated at the same time. "And what was your answer?"

There was only one answer.

She might've given her a very different one when she first came to Kirkwall, naïve and scared and grieving. Falling slowly in love with a healer was an irony she couldn't afford, just another apostate to keep secret from Knight Commander Meredith, but she let it happen anyway. She'd flirted, like a fool, looking for something she thought she was missing but was actually too afraid to find. When he told her he'd break her heart, she threw caution to the wind, realizing that her heart was already broken and he could fill in some of the cracks.

She wasn't afraid of pain. She'd known pain very well by the time she uncovered the extent of her feelings for Anders. She was afraid of not experiencing life the way she once had; she was afraid of never feeling the way Aveline had felt for her husband, love strong enough to kill him, put him out of his misery, no matter how much misery that put upon her.

The irony of that, Hawke did not miss.

Their love had been brilliant and shattering all at once, because as soon as he became everything, as soon as she let herself melt into his arms, she discovered how much he was losing of himself to Justice. The slow torture was watching his eyes change, their warmth disappear into a calculating _need _fed by his emotions, amplified by the spirit. It shouldn't have been surprising to her when he was swallowed by his rage, when the world was collapsing around her and it was _his fault._

And hers by extension, because she didn't stop him. She'd _tried, _but it wasn't enough. She wasn't enough.

She couldn't let him live after that. People thought she couldn't forgive his crimes, that his betrayal had been too great; she supposed that was partially true. But the greater truth was that she couldn't look at him, a perversion of himself, anymore, and she couldn't let him hurt anyone else for her weakness. For months she'd been more a monitor than a lover, and that day he'd murdered so many in cold blood, she became executioner, adding one more body to the massacre.

She'd held him as he died, felt the tremors that wracked his body as she ran her equally trembling hands through his hair. He'd murmured what she hoped were reassurances into her stomach, his head in her lap, and she'd told him she loved him until he stilled. Then the grief drained her of everything she had.

The only reason she'd had the strength to save the city from itself was because she was so _furious._

Strong enough to kill him. Love bright enough to break her.

It all could've been avoided had she just listened when he said he would hurt her.

And _Maker_ had he hurt her.

She looked into Taranari's eyes.

"Yes."

"But—"

"Yes, it was worth it. Yes, unequivocally, yes."

Taranari was still as it sank in, her mouth twitching slightly at the corners. "Do you think," she sighed, "Do you think you'll ever be able to feel that again?"

Hawke's thoughts instantly turned to Fenris, to the way he'd looked at her during their final battles, the scorn, the shame. If anyone… no, she couldn't think like that. He was lost to her now; they would never be the way they once were again. He hadn't even stayed long enough after the last battle to see that she'd survived the giant gash Meredith left in her thigh, as there was no Anders around to heal her. Merrill had done her best, but the scar was long and jagged and still ached of that day.

Hawke ran her hand over her trousers, feeling the slight ridge where the skin puckered. "I don't know," she replied honestly.

Taranari's lips tightened as she considered this, and Hawke saw the age sweep over her features; now she looked how Hawke expected – somber, worn.

She tried to change the subject. "So, who has you so worked up?" There was a smile in her voice, and she saw Taranari perk up immediately.

The elf smiled sarcastically. "What, Varric hasn't given you the full account and a sex scene?"

Hawke's lips curled. "He has his theories," she conceded, "but I'm interested to see if he's right."

Taranari mimed zipping and locking her lips, and Hawke was reminded again of Bethany. Who would _she _have fallen for?

"I'm thinking strong and silent type," Hawke guessed, thoughts turned toward the grim looking Warden. Bethany had always loved the dark browed, loyal warriors.

The elf scoffed. "Which _one?_"

"Hmmmmm, the broody mage?" she asked, knowing full well Varric had already beaten that path. At least Taranari wasn't _quite _as foolish as herself.

The rogue laughed. "Solas?" At Hawke's nod, her grin widened. "No, no, he's a genius, but no."

"A _sexy_ genius?" Hawke raised a teasing brow.

The elf gave her a no nonsense look. "Well honesty is not the same as attraction."

Hawke chuckled, though it still sounded glum compared to Taranari's full, warm laugh. "Very well. What about the Warden? My sister would have adored that beard," she joked.

The elf's expression sobered slightly at the mention of Bethany. "He's a friend and confidant, nothing more."

Hawke began to fiddle with the red handkerchief (her sister's) peeking out from beneath the collar of the robe she was wearing. She'd had the urge to reach for it more and more lately, feeling a closeness to her departed sibling she hadn't in years. Hawke wondered vaguely if it meant she was near joining her and their parents at the side of the Maker.

She had unarticulated hopes that it did.

But she struggled to keep herself in the moment. She was enjoying this conversation with Taranari too much to let it completely derail. "Hmmmm, and seeing as the Qunari and the "Vint" are too enamored with each other to give you the time of day, I'd have to—"

"Wait, what?" the elf sputtered. "_Dorian _and _Iron Bull?"_

Hawke was eager to find a note of jealousy in her surprise (_that _would have been something to rub in Varric's face, something he didn't know), but alas, Taranari merely seemed shocked.

"Well every time one looks away, the other starts staring. Haven't you noticed?"

She evidently hadn't by the way she was turning a pale green. "I walked in on them at Hilamshiral. I thought they were arguing, their faces were so close, but… Dammit, how was I supposed to know Bull was into men? He's been making passes at _everyone._" She looked truly pained by this new information, and her failure to see it sooner.

Hawke felt real mirth bubbling up in her chest. "Maybe it's not _just _men_,_" she pointed out.

The elf slapped a hand to the side of her head. "_Dammit." _She smacked her palm into her skull several times emphasizing her words, "Dammit, dammit, dammit, I have such a thick head!"

Hawke's amusement overcame whatever mental blockade she'd put up, and she chuckled, small, but earnestly. "You realize this leaves the Commander," she commented with a sly smile.

Taranari froze. "Leaves him for what?" Her voice was a shade higher than it had been a moment ago.

Hawke's face stretched into a grin. "I hate it when that damn dwarf is right all the time."

Varric had gloated to her about the secret love affair he'd discovered between their former Knight Captain and the Inquisitor at the first opportunity, and she'd scoffed. The Cullen she remembered was so somber and duty bound that she doubted he'd ever be able to allow himself to feel for a superior the way Varric thought he did. However, seeing him now, the lyrium no longer buzzing under his skin, his face fuller and form broader than it had ever been during the years they'd worked together, she knew he was a changed man the Inquisition had given him a new start.

She suspected it had done the same for Taranari, and they were doing so for each other as well.

"Right about _what?"_ the elf blanched.

Hawke raised a deprecating eyebrow at the rogue. "Obliviousness doesn't suit you, nor is it believable."

Taranari sank back huffily into her chair. "What do you want me to say, Hawke?"

She considered this. "Nothing to me. _He _is the one you should be confessing to," she nodded in the direction she thought was Cullen's battlement office.

"I…" her brow creased. "I can't _do _that to him. You knew him in Kirkwall. You know he would never engage in something so—"

"I knew a very different man," Hawke corrected.

The rogue sighed. "Even so," she murmured, "what he feels for me is a weakness in his mind."

Hawke was surprised, turning her body completely away from the window to face the elven Inquisitor. _They've spoken about it?_

"He said that?"

Taranari snorted. "It's written in his eyes – desire, pain, shame. I can read them well enough."

Hawke met the other woman's gaze sympathetically. "You know fear, my friend. Give him the time you've given yourself."

"But we have a job to do, a country to save. If this goes awry..."

"It _won't,_" Hawke interrupted.

Taranari stood tiredly, running a vexed hand through her hair. "Thank you for the advice Hawke, but I must go help my people unpack. May I walk you to the infirmary to see Varric?"

Hawke thanked her but said no, she would sit a while longer. Taranari smiled her apology as she made her exit.

When the elf was gone, Hawke returned to the window, where the snow and stone peaks made the view both majestic and bleak. In a few moments she would gather the energy that slipped away with Taranari's departure, and go visit Varric in the infirmary. Until then, she worried and waited for a letter from Stroud, knowing that she was actually waiting for a letter from someone much fairer, someone freer than any Warden, someone who's respect and loyalty she'd lost.

She'd lost so much, but somehow that stung the most.

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**Might be next Sunday before I can get the next chapter up, but I'll do my best. Reviews are always appreciated and treasured :)**


	13. Wisdom

**This chapter contains some elvish phrases, which are again translated at the bottom. Also, I will be out of town this weekend, and will likely not get the next chapter up on time.**

**Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites, and a special shout out to repeated reviewers kimmik777 and Elystaa! I'm so happy to know so many of you are enjoying reading this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it! Hope you like the new chapter and please review! **

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Chapter 13 – Wisdom

Solas was deep within the Fade when he heard the call, dark and mournful, a cry of suffering. A voice he recognized gripped him with the sound and he knew, suddenly, where she was and what they had done to her. The force of his fury threw his consciousness from the Fade, startling him awake in the small basement room in which he slept. He rose from his cot, dressing with stiff, jerky movements, thinking only of the journey to the Exalted Plains where his friend had been summoned and how quickly he could make it to rescue her.

It occurred to him as he fumbled with the sash of his robe that he would have to tell Taranari; she would be livid if he ran off into the night to face an unknown enemy on his own, and more than that, he wanted her fighting by his side, wanted her support in this mad rescue. She'd become a constant in his life he couldn't deny, even if he was increasingly perturbed by her dreams. He trusted her, he _relied _on her, perhaps too much.

Even so. He made his way up the stairs to the atrium he inhabited during waking hours, and then out into the main hall, creeping past Varric and Hawke (momentarily out of her silly Orlesian disguise) who appeared asleep in front of the fireplace. Though Solas hardly trusted their faux-snores, he was grateful they'd chosen to pretend rather than confront him. As he slipped through the door leading to the Inquisitor's turret, he hoped that neither dwarf nor human would choose to follow.

That was all he needed.

Solas padded up the seldom used staircase, the banister layered with dust, disturbed at intervals by slender handprints; he was surprised to see a faint glow emanating from beneath the door ahead. He had not considered that she might be awake at this hour, as he'd seen her to her door himself many hours earlier, ending a heated discussion on Morrigan's prolonged presence. She'd excused herself on the pretense of exhaustion, but then, he supposed that not many had as sacred a relationship with sleep as he did. In fact, the Inquisitor took almost every opportunity to avoid it, what with the extra watches on the road and long nights of paperwork and administration at Skyhold.

He wondered how she carried on with such vigor all the time; her smiles seemed such hard work.

He raised his hand to knock, but paused when he heard a feminine voice in the room beyond. "I…what…quest…don't know…save…and what…live…" He could make out very few words, but what he did understand sounded like some sort of speech she was preparing. It did not seem that there were any other people there with her.

_If _he _is in there, _Solas killed the thought in his mind as quickly as it came. Cullen was not in the Inquisitor's room. Solas didn't care if he was. This didn't, couldn't, matter.

He knocked.

"Oh!" the startled sound cut off her monologue. "Er, come in, I suppose," she called down.

Solas entered her chamber, looking up to find Taranari, apprehension in the set of her lips, peering over the edge of the small sofa situated parallel to the steps to the main floor of her apartment. Along with the apprehension, he caught a split second of excitement in her eyes; he wondered who she was expecting.

Watching her instantly relax, he gathered it was not him.

"Solas!" she greeted him pleasantly if tiredly, bounding to her feet and meeting him at the landing of the stairs.

It was then that he saw her properly. Her hair was loose and shining, flowing down her back and shoulders like a velvet cloak, and he'd never wanted to touch it more than he did right then. She wore a simple night dress and robe, long and filmy, the color of the spires of Arlathan, and the moonlight from her windows combined with the smoldering fire in the hearth cast her in a bewitching glow. Her face was boldly bare and her eyes gleamed like the magic the Elvhenan used to breathe into the world, a pure, magnificent gold.

For an instant, she looked like home.

He wanted to cry and clutch her to him with joy for that moment of understanding and remembrance. It was overwhelming how forcefully his emotions swept over him, and he fell to his knees with the completeness.

There she was.

"Solas?" Her voice was heavy on his skin with concern and a lack of understanding that shattered the illusion.

He swiped a hand across his forehead, beaded with instant cold sweat, in an effort to compose himself. "I apologize, Inquisitor. I am…quite in shock." It was the truth, but he knew she would misinterpret the meaning; how could she ever understand what he really felt?

"Please come sit," she urged, motioning to the chaise she had vacated moments before. "Tell me what's happened." The worry lining her eyes soothed the pain of having the image of his people appear and slip away so suddenly; she always had a knack for caring about people in a way that made them feel important, even if she was just patting a shoulder genially as she passed by. Everyone felt her presence in their lives.

Solas knew how dangerous a trap that was, but he'd fallen into it nonetheless. His desire to please and protect her was now greater than his caution, and he knew that would be his downfall eventually, if not both of theirs. But it was too late; the only thing he could do now was hope she defeated Corypheus in time for him to save her from the truth, and himself from having to face her with it.

"What is it?" she asked, having seated herself beside him on the small couch. She had her hand resting comfortingly over his on his knee. If only she knew the energy coursing up his arm at that simple touch, if only she knew how powerful she was.

He sighed, long and slow, giving himself time to gather his explanation again.

"My friend has been kidnapped," he began softly, catching the sharp intake of breath and the angry crease that formed in Taranari's brow. "She contacted me through the Fade, begging my help, and I must go to the Exalted Plains to save her." His voice was much calmer than he felt, as the rage began to rekindle as he spoke of it. His skin prickled with mana, summoned to the surface by his anger.

"Is she a dream walker, like you?"

"She is a spirit of wisdom," he murmured, hoping that wouldn't affect the decision he'd seen in Taranari's eyes. She hadn't made it clear what her opinions were on spirits of the Fade, though she accepted Cole with ready enough arms and she had said once she didn't think it right that mages summoned spirits unwillingly to do their dirty work. That didn't mean she would consider it kidnapping, however, or any cause worth travelling such a distance to rectify.

But, true to the woman he hoped she was, she did not flinch at this information. Her resolve to help him was like granite. "I am coming with you. Name whatever else you need and you'll have it."

The edges of his lips lifted despite his inner turmoil. "You are more than enough."

* * *

They rode through the night, stopping at brief intervals to rest their steeds and pretend to rest themselves. Tara was keeping a close eye on Solas, who was tense and stiff, with an angry grit to his teeth; she knew he was unlikely to be able to relax enough to sleep, not that she blamed him, so she had decided to keep him company as much as possible.

She dozed off a few times the following day while riding, from pure exhaustion, but that was unintentional. And despite his cold disposition during the journey, he still shook her awake with a gentle hand, which she appreciated.

It took another solid night of hard riding, sometimes using Solas' magic to revive the harts, to bring them to the edges of Dirthavaren, making what was usually a weeklong journey in a matter of days. Knowing there was likely a battle in their immediate future, Tara convinced her elven companion to rest until dawn, just a few hours away, but he slumbered for mere minutes at a time, jolting awake with a pained clarity in his dark eyes every time he slipped into the Fade.

There was a damp, chill to the plain's wind that morning when they finally mounted the rise to which Solas had been summoned. They were on foot, as they'd tied the harts to some rocks on the bank of the nearby river, and were fully armed and armored, unsure of what to expect.

Tara did _not _expect a colossal pride demon.

When Solas saw the violet haze of the summoning circle, and the gnarled creature within, he cried out with rage and anguish she never dreamed she'd hear come from his mouth. Then she knew – _that_ was Solas' friend, corrupted. The mages misunderstood him; what they thought it meant – a battle cry or an offer of assistance maybe – she did not know. But when a middle-aged pudgy man in badly embroidered robes rushed over to the two of them, she saw a darker anger, the silent and deadly kind, take over her companion.

"Thank the Maker you've come!" the man sputtered breathlessly, waving his staff over his shoulder at the demon and several mage companions who were taking turns casting barriers around the circle. "That thing has been trapping us here for days."

Tara tried to angle her body between the mage and Solas, but he pushed past her, gripping the man by the collar. "Then _why _did you _summon _her?" he hissed in the aghast mage's face.

"Her? Please," the mage cringed away from Solas' ire, "we summoned the demon to fight the bandits who attacked, but we couldn't control it. It turned on us. We finally managed to contain it back in its summoning circle but we're wearing thin. We need help."

Solas shoved the man into the dirt. "I am not here to help _you._" His palms were crackling with energy, as if he was considering attacking the pathetic mage where he lay befuddled, like a roach stuck on its back.

"Solas." Tara placed a hand on his arm, redirecting his attention with a nod of her head to the spirit, currently in demon form. "How do we return her to the Fade?"

Pain and rage bled through his features. "I am not certain it is even possible now. We could try destroying the summoning circle, but even then—"

Tara was already running towards the the pride demon, a perverted spirit of wisdom, Solas' friend. She thought it was strange, certainly, that he had such close bonds with these Fade entities, but she recognized their value as creatures deserving of rights.

And it was Tara's opinion that everyone should have the right not to be a giant, ogre-like demon.

She pulled an exploding flask from the satchel at her hip and decimated the closest of the conduits forming the circle around the creature, to which it responded by releasing an electrical attack on her so powerful, she thought her muscle spasms would shatter her whole body.

And indeed, when Solas finally caught up and flanked the creature, halting the onslaught of electricity, Tara could feel the tender ach in her ribcage and in a toe on her left foot that suggested broken bones. Even so, she groaned into a vertical position, drawing her twin blades, and hobbled to next tower of the summoning circle, slashing it repeatedly until it, too, was rendered useless. She repeated this process several more times, painfully dodging the demon's attacks in between, and once, moving to take a lightning attack meant for Solas, knowing it was more important that he come out of the fight with working limbs, so he could heal hers.

Finally, the circle's field of energy disintegrated, and with it went the demonic form of the spirit. In its place was the silhouette of a beautiful, robed woman being consumed by smoke, with eye sockets of burning green fire. "She is dying," Solas choked, coming up beside Tara and kneeling by his friend.

Tara stepped back a little to give the two some privacy, keeping a wary eye on the cluster of mages watching them. The spirit and Solas spoke softly in what sounded like ancient elvish, but was too fast and colored by a dialect she wasn't familiar with for her to understand. However, she did understand the resignation in Solas' eyes just before he released his friend, and her form turned to burning bits of parchment, floating away on the wind. Tara thought she heard a small sob shudder through his lips at this point, but then she might've been imagining things.

"Ir abelas, Lethallin," Tara murmured, approaching and placing a consoling hand on his shoulder, much like he once had for her.

He surrendered a moment, clutching her hand under his own and leaning his head into her arm, clenched around this simple gesture like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

But the mages made the mistake of interrupting his sorrow.

"Thank you for saving us," the pudgy one from before said, looking a bit uncertain as he led his comrades forward to meet their heroes.

Through the hand with which she held him, Tara felt Solas' entire being stiffen; the emotion with which he mourned the loss of his friend was swept aside, and replaced by a deadened fury that frightened even her. The veins in his forehead were pulsating irregularly as he shoved her away, rising to his full height, form crackling with mana.

"_You tortured and killed my friend," _Solas bellowed, advancing on the mages with a venomous, murderous look she'd only seen on his face a few times in the heat of battle. Now, he intended to kill these idiots in cold blood.

Tara wasn't sure she should stop him; they killed an innocent, sacrificed her, to save themselves. But, they did it unknowingly. They had been taught to survive in this manner; it was all they knew. Should they be sentenced to death for being true to the teachings of the very circle that she herself had pardoned for their crimes?

She saw as Solas braced himself to be a conduit, channeling his mana into one of the more deadly and vicious attacks in his arsenal. His staff was glowing red, her only warning that it was about to burst into flames.

"Banal, nan din el vir, Solas!" She made her decision, trying to call him back to her, to the restrained man she'd come to trust and understand. He was not himself anymore, the cruelty in his face assured her of that.

He paused at her words, body still haloed with energy, turning his eyes to meet hers. When they connected, she felt something slide into place in her mind, a little "oh" that she hadn't understood until then.

Solas was afraid..._of her_.

She saw it; deep within the fury and pain and misunderstanding, was a core of fear. Was it of her judgment? Her power? She didn't think he was worried she would attack him, so what?

"Vengeance is not our way," she repeated, searching his eyes for an explanation, or at the very least, for himself. But he held no answers for her.

They were locked in a staring contest for a few more tense moments, before he relented, releasing his fire on a nearby rock formation in a torrential volley, then turned back to the cowering mages. "Never. Again," he told them, to whimpers and nods of assent.

It really was a pitiful group. Tara was uncertain how they survived the rebellions, being so weak.

"Solas," she said, motioning him to follow her back to where they'd left their mounts.

He was breathing heavily, barely in control, as he loped away behind her. His eyes were wild when she looked at him, and Tara wondered if he was actually seeing the landscape of the plains, or if he was watching his friend disappear over and over again.

When they reached their harts, Elgar and Nehn, he pressed his face into Nehn's thick red fur, breathing deeply. Turning his head to the side, he murmured to Tara, "I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold. Dareth shiral."

He was on the hart's back in an instant, and bounding across the river, away from the direction where the mages had been. Elgar snorted and tossed his head, eager to follow, but Tara hushed him, watching Solas and Nehn fly over the horizon. "Peace, my friend," she said softly, stroking the hart's velvety nose. "We must let them go, and hope that they come back to us."

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**Translated Elvish:**

**Ir abelas - I'm sorry**

**Banal, nan din el vir. - No, vengeance is not our way.**

**Nehn - Joy**

**Dareth shiral - Safe journey.**


	14. Return

**Sorry I've been gone for so long, guys, but it's good to be back! Nice long apology chapter for your patience ;) **

**Hope you enjoy and please review!**

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Chapter 14 – Return

Tara returned to Skyhold four days after Solas left her in the Exalted Plains, practically falling off Elgar's back when they rode through the gate. Having been injured in the fight with the pride demon, she'd bound her toe and ribs as best she could, but during the journey back, she found herself feeling increasing resentment towards Solas for neglecting to heal her before running off. And by the time she reached the Inquisition stronghold, she was in a great deal of pain.

"My lady!" Blackwall shouted a greeting, hastily dropping his carving tools and coming to meet her at the stable entrance. Tara took his offered hand and tried to maneuver her stiff legs out of the saddle without twisting her torso, but ended up having to put both hands on the warrior's shoulders and let him lift her off Elgar's back. "My lady?" he repeated, looking at her quizzically as she slid, with gritted teeth and a groan of pain, into his arms.

"Broken ribs. Rode from plains. Dying," she choked out, not making any move to stand by herself.

"I suppose I'll just take you to the healers then," Blackwall chuckled uncertainly, as Dennet came up to free Elgar from his saddle and take him to his stall. The horse master had an equally bemused set to his mouth when he saw the state Tara was in.

"Blackwall," she groaned when he didn't immediately start towards the infirmary.

"Alright, don't get your—" He stopped talking when Tara shot him a vicious glare.

He was halfway across the courtyard when she saw Cullen coming down the steps and the look on his face when he saw her. She knew she was in trouble.

"Inquisitor!" Cullen bellowed what sounded a friendly greeting, but she heard the dangerous edge to it.

"Keep walking. Pretend you don't hear him," Tara hissed to her carrier.

"What? Why?" the Warden muttered back, stalling a moment.

"_Because!" _Tara would've beat her fist against a tabletop, had there been any nearby. But it was too late, Cullen was already crossing the courtyard to meet them. "Oh, blast it, it's too late now," the elf groaned. She considered going limp and pretending to faint – Cullen's eyes were sharper than she'd ever seen them, their golden color hardened into a flat brown.

Tara did _not _want to have this conversation with him there, in front of everyone, but faking unconsciousness seemed so cowardly, and she doubted he'd buy it anyway.

"Commander," she greeted him wearily, as Blackwall turned to face him full on.

"You're injured," Cullen observed, seeming to stumble over the words. Seeing the pain in her expression had disarmed him a bit.

She scoffed. "No, I just like to test Blackwall's strength every now and then by having him cart me around."

The Commander's face hardened again at her tone, but the corner of his mouth couldn't help but twitch upward. "Poor test, seeing as you weigh as much as a child."

Tara guffawed in offense, but the men shared a good laugh. "I'll tell you something, you—"

Cullen cut her off, addressing Blackwall. "Mind if I," he motioned towards Tara, indicating that he would carry her, "we have a few things to discuss."

She tried to surreptitiously convey with her eyes that Blackwall should not agree to this proposal, but he was already handing her over. She restrained the urge to pout, glaring at him instead as he abandoned her for the stables.

Cullen settled her against the cool metal of his chest plate, surrounding her with his deceptively warm and inviting scent as he continued toward the infirmary. It reminded her of the night Haven was destroyed.

Apparently, he had the same thought. "It's truly a miracle, that you keep coming back to us," he murmured, not looking at her.

She turned her face up to watch his expression – stern, but magnificently haloed by the midday sun. His sharp jaw was clenched with some emotion she couldn't place; not anger, she thought. "I wouldn't abandon you," she replied softly.

He paused to open the infirmary door, balancing her on his knee as he did so, and bringing them eye-to-eye. "Wouldn't you?" There was an old wound in his expression.

"Wha—" But then he was upright and through the door, and she was being laid on a cot, and the junior healers were fluttering over her as someone went to fetch Vivienne. For a moment, she thought Cullen was going to leave her there, without explanation or admonishment, but instead he fixed himself against the wall by the head of her cot, arms crossed.

"Well, well, so our runaway leader returns," Vivienne strode into the room a few minutes later, expression inscrutable.

"Runaway?" Tara muttered, shooting a questioning look at Cullen.

Vivienne took a seat beside the cot. "Yes, darling, when you scamper off in the night with an elven apostate to do Maker knows what, with only a scant note left behind, people do tend to wonder."

Again, Tara looked at Cullen for some explanation, but he was staring fixedly at the floor. "I don't understand. You thought I wasn't coming back?"

"There were rumors," the enchantress shrugged. "Not to say that I believed them, but they were present." She placed her slender hands on Tara's abdomen, as if she was ready to begin work.

"Wait a moment, why did people think I would abandon the cause _now?_" Tara was becoming increasingly agitated at the lack of faith her people had for her; that was the sort of shortcoming that could cripple their forces.

Now, Cullen and Vivienne shared a somewhat pained glance, both with tightly pursed lips. Finally, meeting the growing desperation in her eyes with his own steady ones, Cullen answered, "Your elven lover," in a voice trying very hard to pretend it wasn't dark and dangerous.

Tara wasn't sure whether to laugh or balk at the suggestion. Was this really what they all thought was going on? Surely, not.

She settled for exhausted disdain. "That's ridiculous," she breathed, waving the notion off immediately. She didn't have the energy for it.

* * *

Three lyrium potions later, drained of her mana and witticism, Vivienne left Tara to rest in the infirmary until the following morning. Tara had expected Cullen to follow the mage out, but he remained, still and pensive, head tilted back to rest on the cobblestone wall.

They were alone, and without the sunlight from the windows, the small, makeshift hospital seemed shadowed and dreary. Tara reached out a hand to raise the wick on the oil lamp beside her bed, expanding the light until it encircled half of the room.

"Afraid of the dark?" the Commander teased, familiar smirk playing on his mouth, though his eyes were directed away from her.

She smiled ruefully. "I've seen the things that live in darkness. I don't want to be one of them."

He pushed off the wall with a sigh. "Fair enough. May I?" he motioned to the chair Vivienne had vacated.

_Here it comes, _she thought, while nodding her assent.

He didn't do as she expected, and launch into a lecture as soon as he was seated. Instead, he ran a distressed hand through his golden hair, muttering to the floor about "where to begin." Finally, he seemed to work himself back up to the anger that was in his eyes when he first caught her in the courtyard.

"Josephine was beside herself after she received your _note,_" his voice and eyes were cold with the memory.

Tara resisted the urge to flinch. "I didn't mean to worry—"

"What did you mean to do, then?"

Her mouth hung open for a moment as she processed the venom in Cullen's words, then she snapped it closed with a click of her teeth. "I meant," she began slowly, guardedly, "to help a _friend _save an innocent who was being held captive. I will _not _apologize for my haste in attempting to do that." Her voice was even, but it held an edge of weary anger.

Cullen's face tightened, and he leaned closer to her, bracing his tense arms against the edge of her cot. "Don't you understand that all of this is lost without you? You can't keep throwing yourself senselessly into danger!"

"I throw myself into danger every day!" she bellowed back, frustrated.

Cullen's eyes were getting desperate. "No, this is different," he growled. "You let Solas abandon you, alone and injured and in the middle of the plains." He huffed an exasperated breath, banging his palm on the wooden frame of the bed. "You should _never_ have left with such a small party to begin with, but of course, _your _safety and well-being wasn't on your mind!"

She was struck by the genuine concern filtering through his anger. "Cullen—"

"Don't," he interrupted her agitatedly. "With my name and the eyes…" His voice softened. "Please." He was fixed on the floor, face in shadow, but she could imagine the slight blush on his cheeks, even as his mouth twisted with anger.

She found a bemused smile lifting the corners of her eyes. "Commander?"

"Better," he sighed, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms like they were a barrier between them.

"Why is it that you're always the one to come find me and set me straight?" she finished, so softly that she thought he might not catch it.

But the way his eyes warmed assured her that he'd heard, though he didn't answer. Instead, he said, "Just…promise me that you'll try to remember how important you are." His eyes were hypnotic with their warm golden glow, combining with his words to stir the infatuation she'd been trying to resist. She _wanted _to be important to him, though, and hearing him say it sent shivers down her spine, even if he was only speaking as the Commander of the Inquisition, even if his army was the only thing he needed her for.

She found herself nodding mutely, in awe of how this man seemed to care for her and aching for him to mean it. _Really _mean it.

* * *

Cullen stayed another hour or so, keeping Taranari engaged with idle talk – trading battle stories, sharing inside jokes, etc. – until she drifted off into the Fade. He'd found he wasn't physically capable of leaving her before that; he'd been so shaken by her sudden departure and the rumor that swept through Skyhold that she wouldn't come back. He _had_ to see her safely to sleep before he could force himself from the room, and only then because of the attention he knew it would draw if he remained by her side through the night.

The protective instinct coursing through him was overwhelming, unfamiliar; he didn't like it. She was his _Inquisitor – _he reminded himself of this again and again, like a mantra. She could handle herself. A few stray bandits on her journey home wouldn't be enough to take her down.

But injured? Injured and alone? And what about a whole group of bandits? Or what if she came across a rift that was endangering a nearby village and felt it her duty to close it by herself?

Cullen walked to the center of the courtyard, looking up in search of the familiar star pattern, but finding only an obscured glow from the moon. He stared at the clouded circle, stewing.

The thought of Solas alone with her at all made his blood heat. The man was so obviously an unknown, a possible danger, and determined to remain as mysterious as possible. Cullen wondered if that's how he drew women close – by tempting them with secrets. He'd seen men do it before, watched it be incredibly effective. It sickened the Commander somewhat, especially wondering if Taranari was one such woman. The kind who would be enamored by the intrigue of the bald, elven mage who'd rather live in dreams of the past than the reality of the present.

Cullen had never been very fond of him – the secrecy itself had rubbed him the wrong way. He knew Solas wasn't revealing all he knew about the rifts, but didn't know enough about them to say what it could be.

And now the man was luring the Inquisitor into harm's way. The Commander tried to reason with his rasher side that it was probably not purposeful, but still, he would need to speak with him.

He told himself that it was his duty to make sure this sort of situation didn't reoccur; the Inquisition _would _be lost in the wake of Taranari's death, Maker preserve her. But deep down, the Commander knew his feelings weren't all so selfless.

There was a deep and veracious jealousy harbored inside of him when it came to Taranari. He'd recognized it first when she accepted Solas' offer of a dance at the Winter Palace, and again when she sparred with Blackwall, who's eyes raked her hungrily like Cullen imagined _his _had when he first saw her discard her duster in the ring.

And on top of that, Cullen found himself, ashamedly, _needing _her. The way she'd sweep into his office with a hot plate of food and a bottle of ale and say, "I _command _you to take a break and eat something," snickering at her little joke as she slipped back out the door. The warm amber of her eyes as she studied one of the reports he handed her, reading it with the care she afforded to _everything _she did, not matter how menial. The expression on her face when he followed her to the gate to see her off on a mission, and she looked back at him standing on the battlements, and waved. These moments made him feel alive, human, _faithful _in a way he'd never experienced before.

He didn't realize the Maker could create someone so _good. _Someone with so much to give. Until he got to know Taranari; she made him believe in a whole new way. She did that for everyone.

And he saw how it scared her sometimes; they'd bow their heads and clasp their hands and she would recoil, just a fraction, and grit her teeth against the words she believed were lies. But he didn't think they were lies – the Herald of Andraste was their way of explaining her, whether or not it was accurate in a concrete sense – she was blessed. Cullen felt honored to even _know _her as well as he did.

He didn't expect more. He wanted it, yes, always.

But she gave so much of herself, to everyone; anyone deserving of her love would be able to give back to her. His bottomless pit of addiction, his traumatic experiences with magic, his inability to protect her back on the battlefield because he was chained to a desk – they convinced him that he would never be that man. All he could do was bask in her radiance, and hope, _pray,_ that she didn't settle for someone else, someone like Solas, who barely understood how much she gave to them all.

* * *

About two weeks later, Solas reappeared. From his window, Cullen watched Taranari meet him in the courtyard and walk with him up the steps and into the main hall, a relieved smile on her face. She'd told him a few days prior that she was worried that Solas really wasn't coming back; she'd said it with such concern, that Cullen's stomach dropped into the floor.

Watching her disappear again with the elven mage, it did so again.

It infuriated him. She was just going to forgive Solas, without a word. That was who she was; _of course _she would forgive him. But he didn't deserve that, and Cullen didn't think he could let him have it, either. In fact, he knew he couldn't let him.

"Maker help me," he groaned, sliding his hand down his face as he rose to leave his office, stalking across the bridge that led to the atrium Solas had claimed. Cullen had thought that he would wait until he saw Taranari reappear, wait to keep the conversation private, but he couldn't wait. Waiting made him stare at the philter box on his bookshelf and long for release, even though he knew that wasn't the release he wanted or needed.

"Solas," he barked as he slammed through the door, wincing internally at the brash sound of his voice.

He was about to make a fool of himself.

* * *

Tara was relieved to see Solas in one piece. She'd been twisting at her fingers in worry for several days, conjuring up images of what could've happened to him to keep him from returning sooner. Her irritation with him for not healing her before he ran off had drained almost immediately after she was healed, and now she was just grateful to have him back.

"You were gone longer than I expected," she said softly, stepping through the doors to the main hall at his side. "I was worried."

His forehead was deeply creased, and he still looked incredibly perturbed, but he spoke calmly enough. "I am sorry, Lethallan. I did not mean to worry you."

She waved him off. "You're here now, that's what matters."

They entered the atrium where Solas' desk was, and he stopped right beside the door, turning to face her. "While I was wondering, I found something…about your _condition_," he said with hushed earnestness. "I am not sure you will want to know."

She assumed the "condition" he referred to was the sudden magic she'd displayed and lost as a child, the magic that had taken her mother's life; Tara's senses buzzed with excitement at the prospect of getting some answers. "Tell m—"

"_Solas!" _She jumped at the sound of Cullen's voice, sudden and bellowing, combined with the bang of the door on the stone wall. The elf beside her looked just as confused as she was at the Commander's appearance, and his apparent distress.

"Commander?" Solas said mildly, raising an eyebrow at him as he marched into the room.

Cullen's response was low and terse. "A word." It was _definitely _an order, and the way his sharp eyes flashed to Tara's face made her certain that he expected her to leave them.

She crossed her arms and sunk into a hip, irritated that he'd interrupted and not about to give over to him. "What is this about, Commander?" She could easily guess. He'd had a conversation or two with her about Solas putting the Inquisition in jeopardy for personal gain, about the mage's unacceptable, inappropriate behavior, about knowing his place, about…

_Come to think of it, _Tara realized, _this doesn't sound like it's about the Exalted Plains at all._

It _sounded _like Cullen was worried Solas was… _No, _she told herself, _that's wishful thinking. Just because there was a rumor doesn't mean he believed it._

_Or cared, _she concluded. She pressed her fingers to her temple, feeling a headache coming on. There were too many emotions banging around in there. She needed to shut some of them out.

But Cullen was staring at her, hard, intensely, which only made her emotions swirl faster. "You," he answered her levelly, not elaborating. She was what it was about.

That took her by surprise, as did the frank, brutish way he was looking at her, breathing heavily, like he couldn't control himself. She felt weak suddenly, like the world was giving out beneath her and she was falling into the burnished gold of his narrowed, hungry eyes. He'd only looked at her like that once before, when they'd sparred and he almost kissed her. He had the same helpless longing in his face now.

She didn't know how she found the words, but she managed to grind out, "I'll be waiting in your office," with enough irritation and suspicion that she didn't think either man would notice the way her heart was hammering. Solas nodded uncertainly at her as she half-stumbled out the door Cullen held open for her.

Of course, she didn't go to his office. She walked halfway there, and, regaining her sense, immediately turned back to press her ear to the door crack. She couldn't risk the two of them killing each other, while she sat unknowingly across the bridge.

She made out Solas' muffled voice. "—intend to endanger—"

"I don't care about your intentions!" Cullen interrupted. "Your emotional instability—"

"Don't speak as if you know anything about me," Solas sneered. Tara could imagine the look on his face as he said it, as well as anticipate Cullen's response.

"I know that you should care for the Inquisitor enough to put _her_ needs ahead of your own," he said.

She was wrong. She didn't expect that at all.

"I care for her more than you could know!" Solas snapped back.

All three of them froze a moment in shock over what had just been said, what they were discovering about each other. Tara's hand was pressed to her mouth.

Solas cared for her? What did that mean to him?

"A fine way to show it, abandoning her alone and injured, days from home," Cullen replied, voice tight.

She thought she heard Solas sigh. "I did not realize she was injured."

"Three broken ribs and a toe." Tara could just _see _the way Cullen was pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to maintain composure. She tried not to be pleased by the level of agitation in his voice; it gave her too much false hope.

"Ahhh," Solas sounded almost pained.

"You realize that she could have died." Cullen's voice had grown even darker, perhaps more enraged by Solas' failure to even notice the state she was in after their battle with the pride demon.

"I do."

She heard shuffling, then, faintly, "If you value your life, you will _never _let anything like this happen again." She wondered if Cullen had moved forward to hiss into Solas' face; that would definitely suit the venom of his words.

With that picture in her mind, it was suddenly very clear to her that this was a power struggle between a mage and a Templar. Not that Solas was any normal mage with any of the Circle's preconceptions, but Tara knew magic and both of them well enough to recognize that Solas was drawing on his mana, while Cullen was preparing to suppress it. She felt the power crackling in the air, even from outside the door, and it was building.

This was getting out of hand.

"Do not threaten me, Commander," Solas' voice was low and deadly. She was sure he was inches from attempting to freeze Cullen where he stood.

"It's a _warning_, mage."

That was when she burst through the door, forsaking the concept of keeping her eavesdropping a secret. "Enough!" she barked, causing the men to jump back from each other. As she'd theorized, Cullen had been attempting to intimidate Solas, leaning over him like some brutish mercenary.

Even having sprung a few feet apart, the Commander was still attempting to glower down at the elf. _He called him mage, _she balked. She'd never heard Cullen refer to another person in such a flippant, disrespectful way, and it frightened her a little to see him so lost in an argument. He was usually so controlled, so measured.

They were both seething, of course, but the Commander's eyes were frighteningly different from normal. She'd seen Solas on the cusp of serious anger before, having travelled with him, so it wasn't so surprising seeing him burning up with fury. But Cullen…

"Commander, _a word,_" she ordered, pointedly using his phrase from earlier.

He drug his raging eyes from Solas to focus on her, and the fire immediately changed from dominating anger to something else. She felt like she'd been thumped in the chest with it – the force of his gaze, the unbridled desire, the desperate, possessive need, tempered with raw shame and self-loathing.

And she _knew._

She knew then. It was all over. Tara was going to play games of self-doubt, and they were going to dance around each other for as long as it took for the fear and duty to wear out, but the path was set and they would end up in bed together before the end of it. Whether his heart would be given over with his lust was still in question, but she could say for certain that hers would be completely. Given to a Templar. She almost smiled at her own doomed stupidity.

He wanted her too, and she was filled to bursting with the glory of the sensation.

She spared a moment's thought for what he saw in _her _gaze, before she had to turn away, overwhelmed. There were too many emotions and factors to be concerned with, and the battle of wills still hadn't been resolved.

She looked at Solas, skin still glowing slightly with mana, menacing eyes locked on the Commander. Words from before floated back to her: _I care for her more than you could know! _She winced inwardly – Solas had to know she'd heard that, and he was probably just as angry with her for eavesdropping as he was with Cullen.

A finger of shame snaked through her as she stared at the bald elf. Hadn't _she _been furious with him for watching her dreams? And now she'd done the same, with more purpose and consciousness than he had watched her wonder the Fade. Of course, she couldn't have known their argument would lead to him revealing something like _that_, but the fault was still hers.

"I am sorry, Solas," she murmured, drawing his attention from roasting/freezing Cullen.

Tara saw the deep, unbending sorrow he felt when he looked back at her. She wondered if he could tell, if he even cared about, the things that would never be. His voice was more emotional than she'd ever heard it when he at last spoke, but she couldn't read him well enough to sift anything deeper out of the anger. "As am I, Lethallan." He smiled wryly, before slipping almost silently out of the room.

_I wonder if he's leaving again, _she thought, and took a step to follow him, beg him to stay and help her fight the evil on the horizon. She wanted to tell him she couldn't do it without him, even if it wasn't true; she wanted to raise whatever part of him that thought so highly of her out of the darkness it was no doubt currently wallowing in, disappointed in her betrayal of his trust.

But Cullen's hand on her wrist stopped her.

"There's something… My behavior…" The Commander looked desperate and torn when she turned back to face him, stumbling through his words trying to find the right ones, hardly the man who controlled the forces of the Inquisition, hardly the hardened warrior she'd grown to understand.

He seemed to recognize this himself, and stopped, closing his eyes and taking long, deep breath. When he opened them, he was in control again, if tenuously; the Commander was back in place. "This _will not _happen again, I promise you," he said, his voice unyielding steel.

Then, running a frustrated hand through his blond curls, he exited the room almost as quickly as Solas had, and Tara was left to wonder _what _he wasn't going to let happen again, and what _in Andraste's warty toes_ she was supposed to do next.

* * *

**Also, if anyone out there is artsy and looking for a new project, I could use some help with the cover photo for Dawn Will Come! Message me if you're interested :)**


	15. Trials

Chapter 15 – Trials

Tara looked down at her wrist where the feeling of Cullen's hand still lingered. She felt torn. Should she follow him? Should she go after Solas? Who needed her most?

The answer was both immediate and disappointing – the elven mage. Cullen was her Commander, and his sense of duty would not let him so easily abandon her, but Solas' ties had never been so deep. He would go without a word if he no longer felt the Inquisition's goals matched with his own, if he no longer felt welcome there; she didn't want that. And what about her answers? If he left, she'd never know why she lost her mother and her supposed magic…

But what about the Commander? How many more moments of vulnerability could she catch him in before he, too, became lost to her? And what would it mean to him if he saw her rush after her elven friend, when he was already so obviously bothered by the rumor that had sprung up that she and Solas were lovers?

Tara didn't know how long she stood there, trying to reason with herself, trying to choose what was best for the Inquisition, rather than for herself – because starting a romantic relationship between Inquisitor and Commander had _never _seemed like a good idea for the cause. But in the end, her feet would only move in one direction. Knowing it was the more selfish choice, she followed the path Cullen had taken to his command tower.

She stood outside the solid oak door for several moments, chewing her lip. _What am I supposed to say to him? _She'd rehearsed speeches many times in her mind, imagining how he might interrupt her, eyes smoldering, pulling her in with a large, warm hand at the nape of neck… But that wasn't the conversation they needed to have right now; they needed to talk about his murderous anger towards Solas, how he had undermined her authority, how he was acting like an enraged druffalo, rather than a rational human being.

_Then _they needed to talk about the way he had been looking at her, and how desperately weak she felt under his gaze.

She knocked. "Cullen?"

No answer.

She tried the door, and it swung open to reveal an empty office. Half the contents of the Commander's bookshelf were strewn across the stone floor, along with most of the items from his desk. _Apparently he throws things when he's upset. Good to know, _Tara thought.

Taking a few cautious steps inside, she looked up into the loft, calling his name. Again, there was no response. He was gone.

She tried not to feel panicked with this realization. She knew that he wouldn't actually leave them, but she worried at the implications of his absence. If he wasn't in his office, _where _was he? Did he chase after Solas, to beat some sense into him? Did he flee to the tavern, to drown his anger and frustration in ale?

Her fingers knotted in her hair, as she began to pace, thinking. Where would he go? The chapel, probably, but should she disturb him there?

"Ergh!" she made a noise of surprise as her foot slipped on a rounded metal tube she hadn't seen. She fell back hard onto the rug in front of Cullen's desk, cursing at the pain radiating up from the base of her spine. "Maker," she groaned, wincing as she crawled forward to see what had tripped her.

The tube had rolled across the room when she'd collided with it, leading her to a cluster of objects she recognized and recoiled from. Lying against the base of a support beam by the side door – complete with a cracked wooden case painted with the visage of a vigilant knight – were the components of a templar's lyrium philter. _Cullen's _lyrium philter.

Tara froze at the sight of the instruments – the small iron spoon with a groove on one side, the tiny knives with drill-like handles, the soft, leather bulb syringe – all with polished marks where fingers had gripped them time after time. She had never given much thought before as to whether or not Cullen took lyrium; it hadn't been an issue she _needed _to consider, not until now. Staring at the glowing blue vials, one of which was cracked and leaking into the grooves between the floor stones, creating a bizarre, cobalt veining, she realized the significance of this part of the Commander. She could _smell _the faint, electric hum of the substance, now that she was aware of it, and she imagined Cullen could've even more so.

The scent carried her back to the night she was escorted from the circle – Hollith's face illuminated by firelight, bent over his own box, his clammy fingers fumbling on the glass of a lyrium vial. She'd reached a hand out as if to help him, causing him to flinch away from her, the lyrium slipping from his shaky grasp and falling into the fire, where it exploded. She remembered the clench of his jaw as he realized his other vials were all empty_, _the _hunger _in his face as he turned to look at her…

She stood up quickly, backing away from the box and shaking the images and smell from her head. She pressed her back into the cool stone of the far wall, eyes closed against the faint blue glow of the lyrium.

She knew very well how twisted and irrational templars could be when facing lyrium withdrawal; that would certainly explain Cullen's treatment of Solas. But with a philter box apparently full of fresh vials (before it was chucked against the wall), why would he be in withdrawal? Why would he throw such a possession across the room to begin with? Tara had seen how templars normally treated such cases – they were like priceless, delicate flowers. She'd seen them almost come to blows over supposed tampering with said boxes, and that was in the circle, where templars were supposed to be the most scrupulous and vigilant.

_He's just not taking it, _she realized with a start, eyes popping open to fix on the case again. She remembered his words when he'd stopped her from going after Solas – _"There's something… My behavior…" _He was trying to tell her then.

But he'd stopped himself. He was _always _stopping himself, always turning away with that ashamed look that wrenched at her heart…

She started for the chapel.

* * *

Tara had always thought that chantries smelled like incense and desperation; Skyhold's chapel was somewhat different. It had a smoky, heartening scent to it, making her feel hopeful and capable, unlike the chantries of her youth. She attributed this change, like many others, to Cole's benevolent meddling, though he would never admit to it.

Cullen, penitent before the altar and statue of Andraste, didn't turn at Tara's entrance, locked in absolution. Tara was uncertain he'd heard her enter at all, over the stream of words coming from his lips, head bent forward into his hands. He looked ashamed.

She ordered herself to approach, edging forward, her body tense as a bow string. _He's not taking lyrium, _she thought again, this time fear creeping up her throat. What else could that change, besides his temperament? His feelings? His desires?

_What if…? _No. He would never hurt her, not physically, not on purpose. She'd always known that. She feared the other kind of wounds much more anyway, the kind that magic couldn't heal and time could only fade in memory.

"Cullen," she said, quietly approaching his hunched back, which froze at his name.

"Inquisitor," he replied, voice a mock of his standard, brisk formality.

Unsure of what to do next, Tara dropped to her knees beside him, assuming a similar position of supplication. Somehow, she knew that he had been reciting the Chant, likely from Transfigurations, but she chose another verse. "Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me, but my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me," she began, quoting the Canticle of Trials, finding it more appropriate. A pledge, rather than an entreaty.

She heard Cullen's sharp intake of breath when she began, and, though she'd closed her eyes to pray, she could feel his gaze upon her. "You know the Chant?" he whispered.

She cracked an eye open to look sideways at him, and the wonder on his weary face was heartbreakingly vulnerable. She wanted to capture the youthful, starry eyed look and clutch it to her chest when she felt empty; it was potent, powerful. Tara was unsure anyone had ever looked at her, not the Herald of Andraste, but Taranari Lavellan, like that before.

"Maker," she continued, holding Cullen's gaze with the faintest smile. "Though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm." His mouth began to move in time with hers, his voice rough and beseeching. "I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

She turned towards him now, giving him the full force of her eyes; locked together, they spoke as one. "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

They stopped before the last verse of the canticle, somehow both knowing that needed to be saved. It was not time for death prayers yet.

"How do you—" The words were breathless and awed.

"I spent years in the Circle and then the chantry after that," she interrupted, her mouth stretching in a smile. She hadn't expected to impress him so much, only to help soothe whatever pains were eating away at him, but she was pleased nevertheless.

He ran what might have been a nervous hand through his hair, laughing shakily. "Sorry, I knew that."

Tara cocked her head at him, before turning to look up at the statue of Andraste, a giantess from that angle. "I know you do." There was a sadness in her voice at the reminder that she was other than a person, a woman – she was a file, a symbol, an icon, someone he could and would read about, rather than just talk with.

She thought he might've noticed this, as he sighed, rolling back to lay on the cool, stone floor. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. That was…inexcusable." He was referring the near brawl between him and Solas.

Tara leaned gingerly down beside him, propping herself up on an elbow. "You undermined me beautifully," she agreed.

Cullen's palms pressed over his somewhat bloodshot golden eyes. "I will do everything I can to atone for that."

She sighed. "You could start by trusting me."

He slowly uncovered his eyes so he could narrow them at her. "What could possibly make you think that I don't trust you?" His voice was indignant, with an edge of anger, which both irritated and excited Tara.

"How long has it been since you've gotten proper sleep, Cullen?" she demanded.

He looked taken aback. "I—"

"How long since you didn't wake up, skin crawling, from vivid nightmares?" Tara knew the symptoms well enough; lyrium withdrawal was frequently used as a punishment for unruly Templars.

He sat up to face her. "What do—"

"How long has it been since you stopped taking lyrium?"

She let the question hang in the air between them, a live grenade, waiting for it to explode. Cullen's face was slack with shock, but quickly grew tight and wary.

"Did Cassandra tell you?" His voice came out a cold demand, and she recoiled from it.

"_Cassandra?"_

He immediately saw his mistake, redirecting her rather than explain. "How did you find out?"

"I went to your office to find you, and your case was in the corner with a broken lyrium vial. Context clues," she responded icily, upset by his anger towards her, as if this situation were somehow her fault.

He sighed, the tension draining from him as he relaxed back into the floor. "I was afraid of that. No one to blame but myself, I suppose." His mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Cullen…" She didn't know how to voice the other things that needed to be said. Where should she begin? "You could die."

_Not the best place, Tara_.

He barked a hollow laugh, darkly circled eyes rolling. "_You_ could die every time you venture outside these walls, but no one chains you to your throne. Why should I be chained to this?"

She faltered. "That's not what I'm saying, I… I just…"

"I know I should've told you. I'm sorry." He turned his back to her, laying on his side, passing a finger idly back and forth through a nearby candle flame. "I can promise you that I have taken measures to ensure it does not harm the Inquisition. Should Cassandra notice me lacking in my duties, I've instructed her to issue my replacement." He held his finger in the flame a bit longer with each pass through, as if testing how long it would take to singe his skin. "I…I fear it may now be time for that."

Tara sucked at the air, trying to keep quiet as she struggled to stay above this new information. She felt like she was drowning in it. "What? You think—"

"You saw me back there. I wanted to…" He paused, a straining, aching sound to his voice. "I was _not _in control."

She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and pulled him back towards her, onto his back again, resisting the overwhelming urge to curl into his side. "You," she put a delicate hand on his chest, pushing against him to emphasize her words, "are my Commander, the Inquisition's Commander. You are now and you were back there." She removed her hand to wave it behind her in the direction of the atrium in which he and Solas had argued, returning it again before speaking. "There is no replacement for you."

His eyes clouded and he sat up, pushing her hand away, expression pained. "There is no replacement for _you, _Taranari. I—"

"You are _irreplaceable,_" she insisted again, and something changed that time. He looked up at her with surprise when he noticed it, as she sat up to face him.

"The Inquisition—" he tried to continue, eyes wide, but she cut him off again.

"Could not function without you."

Now they were both sitting, face to face, legs crossed, knees touching, in a bizarre stand-off in which he haltingly tried to convince her of his inadequacy as Commander and she refused to accept it. But Tara didn't think they were really talking about the Inquisition's forces.

"You put too much faith in me. My addiction—"

"Has only proven you to be the strongest templar I've ever known."

"And what if you're wrong? What then?" Cullen was getting increasingly frustrated, slow to admit to himself what she was already telling him; Tara's lips were quirked in the beginning of a smile.

"When have you ever known me to be wrong about someone?" The smile was slipping into her voice now.

"That's not the point! My situation is harmful to the Inquisition!" His hands hovered in the air in front of her, like he wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until she saw sense. "Harmful to you," he added, dropping them.

Her smile fell. "To me?"

Both of his hands went to his golden hair, fisting in the curls. "Yes," he groaned. "I'm not… I can't…"

She leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on the side of his neck, in what she meant to be a comforting gesture. But as soon as she touched his skin, Cullen's eyes locked onto her, expression darkening with new emotions. He lowered his arms back to his sides, as her gaze darted away from the mix of confusion and possessive desire he now focused upon her.

"Taranari," he breathed in a rough, whispered voice that sounded the way her smooth leather armor felt, rasping against her skin. This voice drew her eyes back to him, and she reeled in the look he was giving her; she went weak with it, the hand still resting on his neck sending shivers up her arm. "You are letting your feelings cloud your judgment in this matter," he murmured, hand slipping over his own knee to brush hers, hesitating, almost an accident but not quite.

She shuddered at the slight contact, horribly shocked to find herself suddenly at his mercy. "My judgment," she began, mind muddled as her body began to respond to his scent as well, gradually surrounding her and mixing with the smell of the candles and incense – boot polish and metal and leather and grass and something sweet, like honey, like his eyes. "My judgment," she tried again, pulling her hand from his neck to help her focus, "is clearer than ever. You leave my judgment out of this. This is about your inability—"

He came back to himself at the word. "Yes! My _inability _to do justice to the title of Commander_._" His smirk was starting to emerge from the sullen expression he'd been persisting in since she entered the chapel, which only made her more befuddled.

"_No!" _she huffed. "Your inability to understand how much _I _need your support to do this! Not the Inquisition. Not our army. Me." She emphasized this by stabbing a finger to her own chest, realizing a moment later that she'd just blurted a confession she'd meant to prepare, to find the perfect wording for. Now, it was too late.

His eyes warmed at her words, but his body seemed to deflate. "I _want _to be that support for you, but I can never be all that you deserve in a Commander." She imagined he said the last phrase almost as an afterthought, a protection in case she was only referring to him as a friend or comrade. "Not when I'm crippled by this…_need._" Now she was sure he wasn't just talking about lyrium.

"Cullen, I don't pretend to understand what it has been like for you," she began slowly, "But even at half your best, you're ten times any other man I could put in your position. Cassandra knows that as well, I'm sure."

"But I owe you more than that," he drug a weary hand across his face. "I owe everyone more. I should just…"

She knew what he was thinking; he would take it again, submit himself voluntarily to the control of a vial, a box, an order he abandoned. "Is that what you want?"

"No." The reply was instantaneous and severe. "But I don't want to damage all we've accomplished here, and there's so much left to do…"

She gripped him by his shoulders, locking eyes with him earnestly. "You will conquer this. We'll do it together."

The corners of his mouth quirked. "Together," he murmured, looking away from her. "I'd like that."

She smiled, almost shyly. "So would I."

He took her hands from his shoulders and stood, pulling her up with him. "I must…go make amends with Solas," he said slowly, his hands lingering on hers as he turned to go.

"No, let me speak with him first," she murmured, squeezing his fingers before briskly pulling herself away.

At the door she remembered the circles under Cullen's eyes and turned, pointing a finger back at him. "Sleep," she ordered, earning her a weary laugh from him.

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

**Oh, readers, I'm so sorry about the time it's taken me to get this chapter up! I've been having a lot of health issues lately (long story), and this chapter is so important, it's taken me extra time to get right. But the following chapters are almost finished, so hopefully I'll have the next one up in a few days. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited! I'll do my best to reply to your reviews as soon as possible. :)**


	16. Lethallin

Chapter 16 – Lethallin

Solas was having trouble falling asleep, something that rarely happened to him. The Fade had always been his escape, and previously, his body and consciousness had been eager to slip from the pains of reality to the mystical, enchanting other world. Not this day.

He'd only just returned and the Commander was already blatantly threatening him, barging in on their conversation, face twisted in unreasonable rage. And Taranari…she'd been looking at the brutish human with a weakness Solas had never seen on her face before. Was it because Cullen was defending her? At first, her mouth had pursed in anger at the man's interruption, but after a few moments under his gaze, she was practically liquid. The memory made deep furrows in the elf's brow.

He turned onto his side on the mattress, letting the thin quilt that he slept under fall to the floor. He _hated _this feeling – his skin was crawling and his insides ached, while his head pounded thoughts of _her. _Images of her eyes, dancing with firelight, sharp and inquisitive as they discussed some story from the old legends. Of her mouth, quirked in understanding at a pointed sigh he gave during one of Cassandra's chantry speeches. Of her nose crinkling when she smiled, celebrating the mastery of a new move or greeting him as he brought her a book he'd discovered in the libraries hidden under Skyhold. Of her chin, cupped in a palm as she leaned against her desk, poring over some new information, a book, a letter. Of her hand holding a quill, long slender fingers sure in their movements. Everything she did was fascinating, captivating.

"Argghhhh!" Solas pressed his palms over his eyes, long fingers forming a cage across his forehead, seemingly trapping the thoughts. He removed his hands with another noise of frustration, sweeping his feet around to meet the floor as he sat up.

She'd _heard _him. When the Commander was at his throat, and Solas' temper flared, urging him to defend himself with those words, so painfully true, she'd been just outside the door. Listening. Understanding.

Thick, hot shame coursed through the elf. _How _could he have let this go so far? What had started as a mild interest in the woman's abilities and rose to a great admiration and respect had turned dangerous and bitter. _I care for her more than you could know! _He'd shouted at Cullen, eyes locked onto the other man's, his flaring mana making his vision haze. Solas had almost released the torrent of energy that was building in him, and he _would have, _had Taranari not burst in and saved the man from his wrath. Because Solas would not kill someone she cared for in front of her.

The elf wondered how much she knew about his power, how much she guessed about who he _truly _was. He knew she hardly believed the story he'd given Leliana – she'd _always _seen past that. But what did she suspect? That he was some runaway Circle mage? Surely not_. _That he was an abandoned Dalish like herself, with a dark and twisted past? Perhaps. That was the closest to the truth she was likely to get. There were few things that would fit his odd array of talents, his markless face, and his claim that he had taught himself mastery of his magic.

It surprised him, sometimes, to catch the glints of suspicion in her eyes, because he frequently forgot the lie that he lived. He'd been in this form so long, that catching his reflection in the mirror or a still pond had hardly any effect; it looked and _felt _like his body, his face. The initial awkwardness and discomfort he'd felt upon his first days with the Inquisition was gone. But Taranari was always able to return him to it, make him fumble through gestures, remind him of all that he _was not. _Not a mage. Not an elf. A thief. They called him deceiver, Lord of Harellanen, and dishonored his original names with ones more suited to the choice he made in order to save _them._

When he asked Taranari once what she knew of the Elven gods, she'd sighted Fen'Harel and Dirthamen as the ones who most intrigued her. The Dread Wolf and the Keeper of Secrets. He'd kept his face very still at this admission, withholding the groan that swelled up at the irony – the form he'd named Solas was a loan from the god of secrets and knowledge. It almost seemed as if the elven Inquisitor had been testing him, because after he gave little response, she changed the subject. This thought never failed to make him marvel at her intelligence – it thrilled and terrified him all at once to think she might discover his true name or nature, to remember how close he'd come to telling her that night by the campfire.

But that was before the Commander. Before a disappointment so acute, he had little to compare it to. His love for the people had been different than this – this was so unbearably specific, so visceral, so—

"Solas?" Taranari's voice was like a whisper on the other side of his door, accompanied by a hesitant knock, like she didn't want to wake him if he was in the Fade. He hadn't heard her footsteps on the stairs, which, though usually whispers of what someone else's brash footfalls might be, were noticeable to him if he was alert. However, this frenzy she'd sent him into was all consuming, it seemed.

"You may enter," he called back, sitting up straighter so that he did not appear to be the defeated, flattened heap of a person that he felt he was.

Her face when she opened the door answered the only question that kept him wondering; she'd resolved her conflict with Cullen. It was clear in the smoothness of her brow – though lined with concern for her elven friend and accompanied by a deep regret in her eyes, it was nothing compared the grieving, twisting look she'd had on her face when she saw how the Commander was acting. And there was a tint to her cheeks that spoke of resolution there, perhaps more resolution than Solas could handle.

"I was worried you'd disappeared again," she said, approaching his bed, relief evident in her shoulders and voice. She hovered beside him a moment, waiting for him to reply. When he remained silent, she sat gingerly down on the thin, feather mattress, a foot of space as separation. "I looked for you in the Fade."

_That _got his attention, forced him to meet her eyes in surprise. At his look of askance, a small smile lit her face and she shrugged. "I assumed that would be your hiding place."

"If you thought I was hiding, how did you intend to find me there?" he asked, turning his body more fully towards hers.

"Well, I thought I'd ask…" She ducked her head, blushing slightly at her intention. He didn't understand why she felt embarrassed by it, though; Solas was struggling to keep from shouting her praises for understanding the Fade so well and feeling so comfortable interacting with it.

He settled for a simple, "You are truly extraordinary."

The blush in her cheeks deepened and she looked up at him in surprise of her own. "You couldn't fall asleep?" she guessed, subtly changing the subject.

"No, I could not."

Her mouth twisted mischievously. "I had Vivienne knock me out magically. I could do the same for you physically, if you'd like," she offered, holding up a fist.

Solas laughed despite himself. "I think I'll manage without that, thank you." He pushed the raised fist back into her lap, gently smoothing her fingers back out, trying not to shiver at the contact.

Taranari's face turned serious when he withdrew his hand. "I asked Cullen to allow me to speak with you first, to apologize for—"

"I do not wish to speak with the _Commander,_" he snapped, stressing the formal address Taranari used to use when referring to the man who controlled the Inquisition's forces.

He felt some pride at only feeling a twinge of self-loathing when the elven Inquisitor's face fell, and she self-consciously tucked a piece of fiery hair behind her ear. "I should not have allowed myself to be strong-armed like that, nor should I have eavesdropped on the ensuing conversation. I am deeply sorry."

_She's sorry that she heard, _Solas thought grimly. _Sorry that she knows there might be something more to my feelings for her. Sorry that she didn't get to hear what I discovered about her abilities._

He resisted the urge to scoff at her apology.

"I was worried that you two might legitimately kill each other, or I would not have listened like that," she added, trying to prod him from his silence.

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your interference _was _opportune."

Her face perked up at his response. "Is that forgiveness I hear?" she teased, but the no-nonsense look he gave her quickly shut that down. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder instead, the same way he had the night he found out how her mother died. "Ir abelas, Lethallin."

* * *

Tara hated that Solas wouldn't even look at her. Hated that they both knew she was apologizing for more than letting Cullen threaten him for a situation that she helped create, for more than eavesdropping. Hated herself for not noticing, understanding, sooner, for not being able to return the feelings he laid at her feet. But even if she thought it was possible for her to feel something in return, loving him would mean having nothing to hold on to. He was insubstantial, smoke and mirrors, and though she cared for his friendship greatly, she recognized that he gave very little of himself.

She _had_ noticed his lingering gaze before, but he had always studied her. She was the vessel of the anchor and therefore his interest. When did that change? How much of himself was wedded to this idea of his feelings for her? Or did "caring for her" mean something different than how she perceived it?

No, there was hurt in him that revealed the intent behind his words. He meant them the way she wanted Cullen to mean them. He meant them in a way that made it hurt to look at him, because she didn't want to cause him pain or lose her friend. She wanted to dismiss the secrets in his eyes, embrace his easy silence and pointed ears as a future she could rejoice in, but she had fallen for the Templar. It was too late.

"Ir abelas," she repeated softly, letting her hand slide from his shoulder as she turned to leave the room.

"Lethallan," he paused her, and she hovered a moment on the edge of the bed. "Banal, ir abelas… I didn't think… You could have died because of my carelessness."

Tara's face softened at this admission and she returned her hand to his shoulder with more warmth. "Neither of us knew my injuries were so serious; my adrenaline from the fight masked most of the initial pain, or I would've said something. The fault is circumstance, or my own, for not suggesting we bring other companions. Cullen was wrong to blame you, but he—"

"He fears for your safety, as I do," Solas interrupted with a sigh, putting a hand over hers. There was weary acceptance and bitter longing in his eyes.

It was in moments like these, moments when she saw his weakness and his want that she wondered about who he truly was, all that he hid from her. She often toyed with the idea of him being one of the Elvhenan of old, an ancient, proud immortal; that might explain his unique interest in the Fade, his unusual perspective on the Dalish. But his appearance was not what she expected from a race so removed from the current breed of elves in Fereldan – he was average in that respect, though she often felt like his body was somehow disconnected from his consciousness. Sometimes the staff in his hands would remind her of the wooden pegs or hooks she'd seen pirates strap clumsily unto their stump limbs. Other times she'd watch him reach as if to brush back hair that was nonexistent. Most often there was a confounding abnormality to the way his mouth moved, like it wasn't natural to speak the way that he did.

These events were much fewer now than in the beginning, but Tara was still hyperaware of them. They made her question everything she thought she understood about Solas, which was not much, considering most of that was comprised of his appearance, the curve of his smile, the way his ears twitched when he laughed really hard, the way his hands moved when casting in battle. Without those details, what was he to her? A ghost. A collection of traits and quotes and memories that were all half lies.

How could he expect her to care for him, when she didn't even _know _him? She wanted to ask him this, but then he said, "About what I was going to tell you before…" He was referring to his discovery about her magic.

Her ears twitched in anticipation. "Yes?" she asked, tensing, his grim face preparing her for the worst.

Solas sighed, meeting her eyes earnestly. "While I was searching the Fade, I encountered a spirit who told me about the Banal'rasen Nuvenin, literally translated as Shadows of Want. They're very weak spirits of envy who attach like parasites to young mages in order to grow stronger, feeding off of their mana until they can either completely take over their lives or encounter a more desirable host."

Tara gritted her teeth, taking a deep breath as she processed the information. She remembered Cole's stories about the spirit of envy from Therinfal Redoubt, and a small shiver went through her at the destruction they could cause. "And you're saying I have one of those?" she asked, drawing back from him, voice strained.

Solas continued carefully. "I…think it's very plausible. The spirit likely latched onto you while you were sleeping that night, and your body reacted with fire, in an attempt to defend itself. Then, once the spirit controlled your mana, it protected your body because it needed you. Because you hadn't displayed magical power at that point, you weren't aware that you had lost it."

"And because the Dalish sent me away so quickly, they didn't notice, and the Circle merely waved off the Dalish's assessment when I showed no further signs of magic," she added, catching on, pieces falling into place. Like so many parts of her life, this too seemed to be the perfect storm.

Solas nodded solemnly. "Precisely. Had anyone seen the signs then, it would be very easy to remove, but… I have spoken with Cole, and we both worry the spirit has grown to maturation along with you and is now feasting off the anchor's energy. It likely is waiting for its moment to strike." He took her hands cautiously. "It will not be a simple process to separate it from you."

Tara pulled her hands away, pressing them over her eyes and sliding them back to knot in her red hair. "So, wait. Stop. You're telling me that I'm…a…I'm a..."

"A mage, yes. Once we remove the spirit, you will have full control of your powers again." Solas was smiling slightly, apparently pleased with the development, their similarity.

Tara was horrified. This was a whole new wrinkle she was not equipped to handle. _A mage? _She had never truly believed that it was a possibility; she thought the night her mother died was some sort of cosmic fluke, like the anchor. But now…now she had to accept and hone and explain a whole new part of herself. A part she knew little to nothing about, despite her time in the Circle.

And, _Cullen, _what would he say? Could he love a mage? Or would he feel blind sighted, betrayed, by her new identity?

She half wanted to ask Solas if he could just leave her the way she was, but she knew that wasn't an option. If he and Cole were right, this spirit that was feeding off of her could endanger everyone she cared about, the entirety of Thedas if it used the Inquisition for evil. And Solas had said it was probably taking energy from the anchor as well, which was possibly even worse, as she needed the mark fully functional if she expected to save everyone.

"What do we have to do?" she sighed.

The elf across from her grimaced slightly. "First, we need to find out if I'm correct."

"And, _how_ do we do that?"

"Well," Solas smiled grimly, "I will tell you that as soon as I have figured it out."

Tara sighed again. _So he doesn't have all the answers after all, _she thought, noticing how exhausted and vulnerable he looked; she suddenly remembered that he'd just returned from what was likely a long journey to Skyhold."Do that, please," she murmured, squeezing his shoulder. "Cullen wishes to make amends as well, but I will tell him to do so tomorrow. You look exhausted."

Solas' eyelids were drooping as he attempted to give her an "I'm fine" look. Huffing, he allowed her to push him back by his shoulder until he was laying on the bed, her sitting beside him; when his head relaxed into the pillow, his face slackened almost immediately, and Tara stood gingerly, trying not to shake the bed as she did so. The creak of the frame was audible enough, however, and Solas cracked an eye open again to look at her. "Will I see you in the Fade tonight?"

She laughed quietly despite her sinking stomach. "I'm glad you're home," she whispered, denying him an answer and leaving the room as silently as possible.

* * *

**Ir abelas - I'm sorry**

**Banal - no**

**Harellanen - tricksters**

* * *

**Okay, so this chapter would have been on time, except this wasn't the chapter I intended to have here, so I made _that _Chapter 17, instead. But, I know, late update for the umpteenth time. I'll do better. School's finally out and I have a life again, and I will be devoting more time to writing. Chapter 17 will be up in a matter of moments. Shout out to kimmik777 for her dedicated reviews, and to everyone else who has reviewed, followed, or favorited. You all have my utmost gratitude!**


	17. Brooding

Chapter 17 – Brooding

Hawke was sitting on the training ring fence, watching the rigid looking Commander Cullen direct the recruits as they practiced bashing into each other. She'd fixed herself there after Bianca (the person not the crossbow) arrived to speak with Varric. Not because she didn't adore Bianca (and she liked to think the feeling was mutual) but because she knew Varric would rather spend some time with her _alone. _And Hawke liked to think that she was a good wing-woman, at the very least.

"Atinson!" the former templar interrupted a pair of recruits who were learning shield work. "If you keep bashing at Russicks like that, you're going to get your chin clobbered off!" The tall, gangly looking boy had been holding his shield with the point out, jabbing with it like a spear, making it all too easy for the woman across from him to use her shield to push his up and back, and into his throat.

Hawke found a smile creeping into her expression as she watched Cullen gently but firmly correct Atinson's form. He stopped and started the exercise several more times until both recruits seemed to have the hang of it, warmly praising them both for their efforts before moving on.

_This _was the Cullen Taranari had fallen for – strong and kind and remarkably laid back for a templar. Over the past month, Hawke had quickly discerned that the respect and adoration he received from the Inquisition soldiers was only second to that which they gave the Inquisitor herself, and she was more a symbol than a woman to them. Cullen was flesh and blood and sweat, yet still they honored him with their loyalty and lives.

Hawke was even less shocked that Taranari was so enamored with him.

Some, however, seemed _less _than enamored with the Commander. For instance, the elven mage stalking across the courtyard from the kitchens, shooting venomous glances at the former templar. From what she'd gathered from Varric, there had been _quite _the argument between the two yesterday, and Taranari had to step in and break it up. Both Hawke and Varric agreed that was something they'd very much liked to have seen, but alas, they'd been in the tavern entertaining Sera and Iron Bull with Hanged Man stories. Had they been in their customary spot by the fire, she was sure they'd have been privy to the shouting.

Seeing how Solas shrunk from the edges of the throng of recruits that Cullen was leading, Hawke found she felt somewhat sorry for the elf. Though he held his head proudly as ever, she saw the tortured defeat behind his mask – in truth, he reminded her of Anders, though she'd expected the association to be with Fenris. But Solas' haughty self-importance was so opposite of Fenris' quiet humility, Hawke saw little similar in them but their race. Instead, he looked like a dangerous, wounded animal.

A shiver went up her spine at the association, and she was struck by the feeling that this man was _not _what he seemed.

"Another mage, Hawke?" Varric groaned, approaching from behind. She turned to see his small frame in full swagger. She'd _definitely _made the right call in leaving him and Bianca be.

Her lips twisted wistfully at his comment. Of course that was the first place his mind went, when hers was already there. "How's Bianca?"

Varric hopped onto the fence beside her, always surprisingly spritely for a dwarf. The smug look on his face split into a cheeky grin as he said, "Better now, I'm sure."

Hawke chuckled softly, bumping him with her shoulder. "So good she had to flee the castle before you could seduce her again?"

His face fell slightly. "We can't blame her for not being able to handle a third go-around," he said, his falsely light tone carrying the weight of what he left unsaid: Bianca had to go back to her husband – she _always _had to go back to her husband.

Hawke had never been entirely certain why this bothered Varric, as she knew he had no intention of settling down with any woman yet, even the fabled Bianca. But then, Hawke had always known that Varric mourned more for the story than for the reality – and it would be a hell of a story, if Bianca were to abandon her Smith Caste husband and possibly start a clan war to be with Varric. Hawke knew he wanted to write that ending, but did he want to _live _it?

She nodded her head in the direction Solas had gone, redirecting Varric's attention. "He reminds me so much of Anders," she said softly.

Varric sobered, a dark look passing over him. "Yeah, that's what worries me."

"You don't think…?"

"No, not _that. _We've already been over that. Something worse," he answered.

He fiddled with the ring he wore around his neck, mouth grim.

"What could be worse?" Hawke murmured, glancing over at Cullen, who was now attempting to police Sera as she tried to teach the off-duty recruits to shoot apples off each other's heads.

Hawke felt Varric's eyes on her, but she refused to meet them. They'd spoken very little about what happened with Anders; Varric hadn't asked and she hadn't known what to say. Telling him she felt painfully empty, like Anders had slowly leeched the life from her and left a void she could never fill, a crater larger than the one where Kirkwall's Chantry used to be, seemed too big a confession. She didn't want to vocalize her weakness, not when she could pretend (and he was the only one with whom she really could) that everything was fine.

"Hawke," he tried to summon her attention.

She looked down at her hands, dry and red in the cool air of the Frostbacks. "I keep trying to remember what winter looked like in Kirkwall, if it snowed there," she said, staring at the ridges in her skin, the cracks and old scars.

In some logical part of her mind, she knew that Anders had destroyed the Chantry in late winter, almost spring, and there was no snow. But when she looked back, she always imagined snow falling, mixing with the ash, though the picture was incomplete. What did the skyline of the city look like frosted in white? She couldn't recall; she stared at the white capped mountains and tried to recreate the image daily.

"It looked like home," Varric said, lowering his head as if praying. "It always looked like home."

The corners of her lips quirked; he was one the few people who understood how much Kirkwall meant to her. After everything she went through there – losing Carver to the templars, her mother to a crazy blood mage, and the man she loved to the demon within him – most assumed she had negative feelings for the city, when she actually missed it. She wanted to go back, run her hands over the familiar paving stones of the streets on which her blood and the blood of her enemies had been spilled, and _feel _something again. Feel at home. It was _her _city after all – she'd saved it.

"And it did snow. Six times. If memory serves, during all of them you were bedridden with one mortal wound or another, Hawke."

"No," she began to disagree, but then the memory floated back to her – the hazy view from her canopy bed, Leandra opening the curtains wide to let in the white, winter light, ice hanging from the railing of her snow covered balcony. She had been sore, but happy. Fenris had promised to come read with her that night, and she'd been smiling to herself at the thought of him blending into the frosted landscape when he crossed the courtyard to her door.

"Maker's breath," she murmured, surprised by how acutely missing him hit her. Of course, she'd known for some time that missing Kirkwall and missing Fenris were rather intertwined. Anders was part of it too, but the hurt she'd felt initially had distanced his memory from her somewhat; he was gone, and she didn't want to remember him often. It was easier to remember Kirkwall and Fenris.

Varric was looking at her sideways. "What're you thinking about?" His voice was suspicious, like he couldn't quite place her thoughts yet, but he was catching on.

A somewhat sheepish look crept into her eyes as she prepared to dodge the question, but, thankfully, Commander Cullen chose that moment to saunter over to their party.

"What say you of my recruits, Hawke?" the Commander asked, leaning beside her on the fence rail.

Hawke smiled at him gratefully. "Well, they're not _all _templars, so I suppose I approve," she joked.

Cullen smirked, stretching the thin scar she had inadvertently given him the day he challenged Meredith.

Hawke was almost out of mana, and Fenris was caught under the boot of a bloodthirsty Templar, clear across the courtyard from her. Desperate, she had conjured spears of ice and sent them spiraling across the divide towards the assailing man, hoping to cause him enough pain that Fenris could regain the upper hand. The attack had worked, but the then Knight-Captain had been fighting nearby and was caught by a stray shard across his face. Merrill had done what she could, but the mark on his lip remained.

Hawke had realized upon coming to Skyhold that she and Merrill had done him a favor that day. It drove the Inquisition women _crazy._

"None of them are templars," he commented.

Hawke leaned out from the fence to look around him, locating again the pair of young men she'd singled out before. Their movements, surer than their peers, the way they held their shields, the set of their shoulders, all suggested training from the order. "But, those two?" She pointed at them.

Cullen's smirk widened, and he chuckled slightly, obviously impressed she'd picked them out. "They defected before taking their vows."

"Ahhhhh," she sighed, looking sideways at Varric. "Trying to cultivate more future kings in the ranks?" Varric chuckled dryly as Cullen's mouth widened into a grin. It was well known that King Alistair had started out humbly in the Chantry, snatched away from his templar future by the Grey Wardens' Rite of Conscription. "I can't imagine the Chantry's too pleased."

Cullen's face fell. "They're not too pleased with anything we've done, I'm afraid."

"Wasn't that kind of the point?" Varric asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Hawke, sensing something more serious was going on than regret, slid off the fence to put a hand on the Commander's arm. "What's happened now?"

He met her gaze tiredly. "Our alliance with Orlais has put them on the offensive, and the few Revered Mothers remaining with the power to lead have banded together in a campaign against the Herald." He ran a hand through his short curls, gripping the base of his neck in frustration.

"It won't work," she said soothingly. "Taranari is far too big for something like a few small time Chantry leaders to best her."

His warm eyes, heavy with responsibilities, pinched closed. "They're claiming we're purposefully destroying the Templar Order."

"Because you're—"

"Going after the red templar strongholds, yes."

Varric heaved a sigh, hopping off the fence at last. "You can't save them all, Curly. We all have to learn to live with it, even the Chantry." Patting Cullen's forearm, he began making his way toward the tavern. It was understood that Hawke would follow when she was ready; she'd always been better at this sort of thing.

"He's right, you know," she said, watching Varric slip through the tavern door. When she met the Commander's eyes, hers were dark with old burdens. "There were so many I didn't save, and they call me _Champion. _It seems the higher the body count, the greater the title."

His grimace deepened, and she saw a flash of anger in his eyes. "And what if I don't _want _the title?"

They'd shared a sort of somber understanding after the destruction of Kirkwall's chantry, he and Hawke, but she was still surprised that he'd reveal such a personal misgiving to her. He'd never been the type when she'd known him before.

She blinked several times at him. "Could you ever walk away?"

He turned from her a moment to call out corrections to a group of recruits throwing daggers, then walked past her to grip the training ring fence. Sighing heavily, he said, "Either way it might kill me."

Hawke joined him against the fence, mouth twisting as she tried to hide a smile. Something about his tone made her think they weren't talking about the Inquisition itself anymore.

_It seems I am to play matchmaker in this game, _she thought, remembering her conversation with Taranari weeks before.

"So which is most worth the risk?"

She saw the answer in the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smirk he couldn't contain as he thought about _her_. But almost immediately, the darker emotions Taranari had mentioned, the shame, swelled up to extinguish the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

He studied a crack in his training gloves, brooding. "How did you do it, Hawke? How did you keep from losing yourself in their icon?"

She was surprised to be getting that question from the Commander, when she'd expected it from Taranari. "I was already losing myself in something else at the time," she replied cryptically.

"You mean…?"

She looked at him with her steady green eyes, willing him to understand. "Love can save or destroy you if you let it. It did both for me."

He ducked his head, brooding. "If I were to let it destroy me, the Inquisition and possibly all of Thedas will pay the price. And _she_…" He stopped himself, looking askance at the tower where Taranari's chamber was, though Hawke knew very well that the Inquisitor had left on a short mission with Cole, Dorian, and Cassandra.

"Cullen," Hawke interrupted his brooding, gripping his forearm. "You've already lost this battle. Hasn't the tactician inside you protested at the continued fighting? Why cause more needless damage?"

"I don't know to what you're referring," he muttered coldly, turning away. Hawke wondered if it was the elven mage that had him so wound up, or if it was merely the idea of putting his duty in jeopardy for a romantic entanglement.

_Templars, _she scoffed inwardly, thinking of her sour younger brother.

She gave the Commander a light shove. "Yes, you do. And you'll only hurt her by playing this imbecilic game with yourself. I know she has no other _interests _to ease the sting_._"

"I…" As her words dawned on him, his face turned awed. "She…" A smile crept into the confused set of his lips, stretching the scar that Hawke knew made Taranari's knees weak.

"I'll let you stew on that one for a while, Commander," Hawke smirked, throwing a mock salute his way as she sauntered off towards the tavern to join Varric.

* * *

**As promised. Two chapters in one night is a decent apology, right?**

**I'd love to hear what you guys think of Hawke's role so far in the story. I didn't intend to develop her so much, but she keeps coming back, begging for page time. I'm thinking of doing a companion piece with her after I finish Dawn Will Come. Please review and let me know how you're liking her!**


	18. Approach

Chapter 18 – Approach

_"Sir?" It was a soft, tremulous sound, wrenched from her by the force of the mage's eyes. He was a new Enchanter, with a heavy brow and an animal fang piercing one ear, who wore his facial scar like a trophy; no one had told Tara his name. "Can I do something for you, sir?" she repeated, this time a little more boldly._

_The man cocked his head, the faintest hum of magic emanating from him, as if he was preparing to cast. He wasn't supposed to be using magic there, in the children's wing; only authorized mages were allowed to cast beyond the red doors of the Ostwick Circle, and they only did so in demonstration or emergency. But this man seemed to be looking for something, and Tara was worried as to what he might find._

_"I ask for nothing," the man began to speak, his form oddly dissimilar to his voice, which was throaty and intimidating. "Because it is not in your power to give." She knew that voice – the voice of a pretend god, the voice of a crazed magister, the voice of—"But that will not stop me."_

_Suddenly, the man's face began to morph, the scar pulling at his upper lip splitting into lines and cracks across his skin, aging him, then ripping open to reveal spears of red lyrium, which fanned out from his face like fins on a fish. His fingers lengthened into red talons, and his skin popped and tore as he stretched upwards, towering over her, revealing the curves of his ribcage, exposed and lyrium filled. He—_

_"Taranari?" the voice came from above, a woman's, distracting her from the monster emerging before her. She looked to the ceiling in confusion. "Taranari, wake up!"_

_Suddenly the ceiling was very close and very far away all at once, and she couldn't breathe, and Corypheus was escaping but so was she…_

* * *

Tara woke with a start, opening frantic eyes to latch onto Hawke's familiar face, lined with determination and excitement, her green eyes illuminated by a candle she'd lit on the bedside table. "Stroud's finally sent word. He's located a contingent of Grey Wardens at a Ritual Tower in the Western Approach, as we thought," the mage woman spoke hurriedly. "We must be off at first light, if we want to intercept them."

Tara blinked, processing the new information with her sleep clouded mind. "Tell…ask…can you have Blackwall, Dorian, and Varric prepare to depart as well?" she groaned, throwing off her quilt and standing, shoulders stiff as she headed for the wash basin.

Hawke nodded briskly, and Tara was pleased to see some fire back in the woman's eyes. "Varric is already packed and speaking with your horse master about the mounts, but I will wake and ready the others." She was out the door before Tara could even thank her.

The elven Inquisitor sighed, splashing water over her face as she attempted to forget the images from her nightmare. She rarely dreamed about Corypheus, rarely even thought directly about him. His power and the devastation he'd left in his wake frightened her too profoundly, so she focused on smaller evils. She concentrated on the abstract concept of sealing the Breach permanently, stopping the Red Templars. Thinking about their leader only made Tara think of what could happen to her, how power could corrupt and pervert her; it made her cringe away from the red lyrium rocks she'd promised Varric she would help located and destroy. It made her stare searchingly in the mirror in her room, waiting for whatever evil had slipped inside of her to bubble up under her skin.

But it had been easy enough to push Corypheus out of her mind, to make herself and her cause so separate from him that it was not often an issue. Now, knowing what he once might've looked like, that he was once _handsome, _with a scar decorating his lip so similar to one she _lusted _after…she knew it would not be so easy anymore. _Especially _since she now knew she, too, was a mage, with a potentially mind altering, parasitic spirit riding around on her back.

Solas had been busy searching for more answers on the Banal'rasen Nuvenin the past week since the encounter with Cullen, but he had uncovered little, and Tara suspected his incessant research was an attempt at avoiding her. She'd begun to rely on him more and more heavily in the past months, she realized, and was uncomfortable at the idea of setting off for the Western Approach without him. But his distance and the importance of his current project convinced her he would not come, even if she asked, and she knew it would hurt her far more to have to listen to a half-hearted excuse should she try.

In some ways, this was easier; she didn't want to risk sending the wrong message to Cullen, who she knew harbored ill-will for Solas. Still, she worried that leaving them at Skyhold together was dangerous, should another argument spiral out of control. On top of all that, it pained her to leave Cullen to deal with his withdrawal on his own, when she'd only just pledged her support.

_I should tell him I'm leaving, _she thought, drying her face with a towel, and reaching for her hair brush – plain, with a smooth-worn wooden handle, one of the few things she'd bought for herself in Haven that had made it into the caravan when they fled the town. She stood before the mirror, red hair hanging almost to her waist – _Maker, when did it get that long? – _working the snarls out before quickly plaiting it into a long braid over one shoulder. Tara tried not to add the color red to the list of similarities between herself and Corypheus, as she tossed the brush into the burlap satchel she usually took on prolonged journeys.

There was a knock on the door, and she yelled a clipped, "Enter!" as she fished a bar of wrapped, lye soap from the cupboard in the corner. It was then that she realized she was still only wearing her nightgown (and not one of the simple ones she liked) and turned to halt the visitor. "Wai—"

She stopped abruptly when she saw that he was already standing at the top of the stairs, staring at her. How she didn't hear his booted footfalls she did not know – it wasn't like he'd ever been all that silent, always in full armor.

"Cullen?" she asked, somewhat apprehensively, picking up her robe from where it was draped over her bed frame and shrugging it on to cover some of the embarrassingly frilly nightgown.

The Commander quirked an eyebrow, but, mercifully, made no comment on her appearance. "I am told you are departing at first light." There was tension beneath his words, a request that she remember what they'd spoken of after the last time she put her life at risk, a request for caution, consideration.

She shoved the soap into her bag and ducked under the bed to retrieve her spare boots. "Yes, Hawke's had word from Stroud. The Wardens are meeting at an old Ritual Tower in the Western Approach, and it's at least a two days ride." She was carefully avoiding looking at his face, lest his expression give her another reason to want to stay, but she saw him nod out of the corner of her eyes. Even that stiff movement proved to be disarming, and she found herself abandoning her half-packed satchel on the bed to approach him.

"You needn't worry," she attempted to console him, putting a hesitant hand on his forearm. "I doubt that even Grey Wardens could take both Hawke and me down."

His gaze was fixed on the floorboards. "Yes, but in numbers… You…" He finally caught her eyes, with his own conflicted, dark-circled ones.

Her mouth quirked, as she shifted a little closer. "Don't you _ever_ sleep?"

"On occasion." He let out a tense chuckle, running a nervous hand through his hair. "It's hard when there's so much to worry about."

Her returning laugh was just a sharp exhale. "I know the feeling."

Cullen turned serious again, kneeling slightly so that they were eye-to-eye, his golden brown irises boring into hers, their noses so close they were almost brushing. Tara's breath froze in her throat as she attempted to stay perfectly still, lest the wrong movement scare him away. He took her slowly, carefully by the shoulders, as if he was afraid to touch her, but also couldn't stop himself. "I'll sleep…" His voice was heavy with emotions – longing, regret, worry, and his lips almost seemed to be reaching for hers across the small divide as he spoke. It took all of her self-control not to close those few inches, not to push him past where he was comfortable. "When you've come back to us safely," he finished, half a plea, half a command.

Tara ordered her knees not to shake, as he immobilized her with his gaze and large, warm hands (for once devoid of gloves), his words hanging between them. She knew there was a "me" being withheld in his sentence – _when you've come back to _me – because he couldn't quite admit it yet. Of course, she didn't blame him; she'd never admit how badly she wanted him to hold her, to give her something to hang onto for the next month she could be gone. Something that said: _this is more than it seems. This is real. I'll wait for you._

It had become a pastime of hers to obsess over the crippling fear that she was deluding herself in her budding relationship with Cullen. She worried that she would come back to rumors of him relieving stress or worse, falling in love, with Josephine or Flissa or one of the many beautiful women who passed through Skyhold daily. The thought left a sickening knot in her stomach that rarely went away. The intensely close parting moment with him was not quite enough to banish the fears, but it helped. It was something.

She felt the profound absence when he slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms and pulled abruptly away, as if nothing had happened, as if that could have been a completely ordinary concerned Commander gesture. "I will see you off at the gates," he said in parting, his eyes lingering on hers as he made his way to the door, a ghost of his smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

She tried to think of an excuse for him to stay – _I just remembered there's a mouse living in my cupboard, Cullen. Could you help me catch it? The clanging of your armor will probably scare it though; best to take it off –_ but, finding nothing reasonable, she just watched longingly as he made his deliberately slow exit.

When he'd gone, she slipped her robe and nightgown off, tossing them in a heap on the bed and quickly wriggling and snapping into her molded leather armor and duster. After hurriedly stuffing two linen shirts, two pairs of leggings, her white cowl, and the hat Cole had given her which was suspiciously similar to his own (except it was silver and grey rather than black and brown), into her bag, she folded her heavy traveling cloak over her arm and was out the door. Hopefully, she'd "accidentally" catch up to Cullen on the stairs.

* * *

Tara was relieved to find that Stroud was much slighter in stature than she'd originally thought; he'd seemed to loom over her in the tight space of the Crestwood cave, which made her somewhat nervous. But the desert revealed him to be about Cullen's height, with less desire inducing shoulders, of course, and a fierce mustache.

"How long have you been camping here, Stroud?" Hawke asked, kicking at the embers of his cold fire, seeing something that Tara wasn't. They'd followed the Warden to his camp, nestled in the crook of one of the many rocky outcroppings dotting the landscape, after he made contact with them at the Inquisition's forward camp.

Stroud, who was folding up his canvas tent, scoffed an exasperated noise from his nose. "One night," the man grumbled in his thick Orlesian accent. "The Warden's scouts discovered my last _three _campsites."

Hawke shook her head, the set of her mouth betraying disapproval.

"And you still made a fire?" Tara asked, also surprised.

The man looked taken aback. "It was freezing!"

Tara heard Dorian suppressing a snicker. They'd spent the previous night at the camp Scout Harding and her team had set up in the mouth of the canyon cutting through the Approach, and it had been _warm_ by Skyhold's standards.

Hawke, now kicking at the remains of the fire with more purpose, spreading the ashes and covering them with sand, changed the subject. "So, how close is this Ritual Tower? Are the Wardens there now?"

"No, but I believe the advisor I mentioned to you is. He has been camping there for several days now… It appears as if he is waiting for something." Surveying the primarily unmarked sand left at his campsite and apparently finding it sufficient, Stroud turned to Tara. "I fear the worst, Inquisitor. I hope you are prepared to deal with whatever comes."

She nodded sharply. "We are." She didn't completely trust this contact of Hawke's – something about him made her guard raise, something wasn't quite…_right_. Was it simply that he was a Warden? Blackwall didn't cause that reaction in her, even with all of his secrets…

"Lead the way," Hawke commanded. Tara couldn't help but notice the fist clenched tightly at the other woman's side. Did she feel it too? The unease?

* * *

They'd stumbled upon exactly what they were worried about finding – the Wardens were sacrificing their warriors to summon and bind demons to their mages in order to make an assault on the Deep Roads. Worse, the "advisor" Stroud had mentioned was a magister working for Corypheus, and had enslaved the minds of the mages controlling the summoned demons, explaining the demon army she'd seen when she'd been thrown into the future in Redcliffe.

"Well," Tara began, surveying the bodies while wiping her daggers on one of the dead mage's robes. "I think we can safely say the Grey Wardens have gone Andraste's dimpled ass cheeks crazy." Her voice was deceptively light, though she was inwardly enraged at this turn of events – _how _could they have been so _stupid?_

"Is that a unit of measurement?" Dorian sneered, raising an eyebrow.

She sheathed her now clean daggers with a scowl. "Oh, sod off." She glared in mock anger, and he laughed as he made his way over to Varric to heal a burn on his arm. She was thankful, for once, that Dorian had trouble taking things seriously, because she was not yet ready to face this situation with the gravity it demanded. However, the other mage of their groups seemed to have no problem responding appropriately.

"Blood magic!" Hawke spat, across the platform from where Tara was picking through the pockets of one of the corpses, looking for clues as to where the advisor, Livius, had escaped to. "Human sacrifice! Demon summoning!" Hawke was approaching Stroud with a vicious intensity in her eyes, staff still clutched in her right hand, the faint glow of magic still sparking off of it. Tara stood quickly, and made her way towards the pair, Varric mirroring her actions from the other direction. "This is what your Grey Wardens are?" Close up, Tara could see the fury and anguish chipping at the Champion mask, invisible to the average person, but laid bare for those who knew the tells. To Stroud, Hawke likely looked much different. "This is what you left in your wake," she murmured, the anger and magic fading.

The last line was spoken so softly, Tara wouldn't have heard if she hadn't been standing right next to her; it didn't sound like she was speaking to Stroud anymore. If Tara had to guess, that comment was for her lost love, the Grey Warden who ran, the mage who turned the world mad.

Stroud's expression tightened into indignation. "The Wardens are desperate! They are only attempting to do their duty, and protect the people of Thedas!"

Hawke scoffed, pushing her hand through her dark hair and beginning to pace. "And they'll kill us all for their duty... Where is the Hero of Ferelden, now? The Warden Commander who rebuilt the order from scratch? What will she do when she hears of this? And what of the king?" Hawke was speaking in an undertone again, like she was working through the problem with herself.

Varric watched her with concern. "What's our next move?" he muttered sideways to Tara, disguising the worried glance he slipped her in a movement to re-strap Bianca to the harness on his back.

"I don't know," she replied at the same volume, eyes darting to assess Blackwall's expression as he and Dorian approached the cluster. He looked as pained as she would expect, encouraging her that he really hadn't had any idea what was going on. Though she still found it odd that he was so thoroughly uninvolved with the order, and he wouldn't give her a straight answer about the Calling.

"So, shall we play the part of Templars and chase after the crazy blood mages?" Dorian quipped, the normal sarcastic lilt to his voice. It earned him a sharp look from Stroud and a wince from Blackwall.

"How could the Wardens do this?" her warrior friend murmured to himself, looking down at his gloved hands as if they held the answers before clenching them into fists. "They're heroes." His voice sounded almost like a disillusioned child, having found out the knight who slayed the dragon and saved the town in his favorite folktale was now a layabout drunkard with lice in his beard and rust on his armor. Blackwall would _never _allow his armor to rust; that was something Tara realized about him within a few moments of meeting him. Even after months in the field, his gear had been meticulously clean, beard trimmed, teeth white – she'd been surprised, to say the least, as had Josephine and Leliana.

_"Well," the ambassador hummed after Tara pointed him out in the training yard, joining in with the recruits. Josephine quirked a brow and turned to share an impressed glance with their spymaster. "He certainly has his charms."_

Tara had laughed then, but now, looking at his face, dark with doubt, disappointment, betrayal, she did not feel like laughing. "Blackwall—"

"I think I know where they are going," Stroud interrupted her, glancing behind him out at the desert. "There is a Warden fortress – Adamant. It has been abandoned for years, but…"

Though her nostrils flared in irritation at his interruption, she nodded evenly. "That makes sense."

"I will go with Stroud to scout it out," Hawke volunteered. "You should send word to Skyhold, Inquisitor. It's likely we will have to lay siege. We will meet you back at the Inquisition's camp." Her eyes looked more strained than Tara had seen them since Varric's injury, and the elf was hesitant to let her go. But Hawke wasn't asking.

The woman started off in the direction Livius had gone, Stroud, his mustache pulled down in a tense grimace, on her heels. Varric cleared his throat pointedly at Tara, giving her a "let me make sure she doesn't get herself killed" look, and she nodded, jerking her chin in the direction of the pair to indicate he should follow.

"Wait up, Hawke!" Varric called, his short leggings rushing to catch up to them. "I'm coming with you!"

Tara saw the look of relief on the woman's face as she turned, meeting Tara's eyes for a fraction of a second in gratitude.

* * *

**No real excuses for lateness, just hadn't figured out how to write this story line yet. Sorry guys.**

**I'm replaying the game currently to work on incorporating more of the many colorful Inquisition characters, because I feel I've been neglecting that aspect of the story. Also, in case you didn't notice, I finally got some cover art up for Taranari and Cullen! It's not the best (I drew it myself), so if anyone out there has other images they'd like to offer up, I'm happy to take alternatives! **

**Thank you for all of your reviews, follows, and favorites, as well as sticking with this story, even though it's becoming more of an "updated twice a month" deal.**

**-Adrianne**


	19. Adamant

**Did I tell you guys I was spending a month and a half studying in Europe? Well, I did that (I live in the U.S. on the east coast, by the way) - it was crazy stressful, as well as awesome, once in a lifetime, etc. And, it's partially to blame for the incredible break between chapters; the other part is the slump that I've found myself in since I got back. Anyway, I'm sorry again. I promise I do care about this story and finishing it, but I've been having a lot of trouble doing much of anything lately, especially writing. Hopefully, I'll get out of this soon. Until then, know I won't leave you hanging forever, even if it takes a while.**

**Thank you for all of your support! Hope you like the chapter!**

**-Adrianne**

* * *

Chapter 19 – Adamant

Even with the extra Druffalo Josephine had arranged for them to borrow to speed the process, it took almost a week to move their machines of war to the Western Approach, the greater half of the Inquisition's army and a contingent of Chavaliers as a gift from the Empress and Grand Duke in tow. Cullen was pleased with how quickly their troops had mobilized, though he knew that every day they spent marching to the Approach was a day the Wardens spent summoning more demons. And, _of course,_ Taranari intended to personally carve her way to the heart of their keep and cut the head off the snake; worse, he couldn't go with her.

During the journey, he attempted to console himself that at least he would _be _there, rather than stuck at his desk in Skyhold, wondering if she was wounded, captured, _dead. _Of course, leading the siege on Adamant only meant he would be wondering those things in closer proximity, increasing the likelihood of a misstep in a command decision. In battle, with their soldier's lives in his hands, he couldn't afford to be distracted by his worry.

Cullen wondered if Taranari felt the same. When they finally reached the Inquisition's camp in the Western Approach, she would hardly meet his eyes. She ordered the troops to ready their weapons and get what rest they could for the remainder of the day – they would prepare for attack at dusk; then she returned to the white command tent Josephine had emblazoned with the Inquisition's heraldry. From the look Blackwall gave him when he passed, obsessively stoking the unnecessary fire (it was the middle of the day, and rather hot), Taranari had been spending a lot of time in there while waiting for their troops to arrive.

He approached the canvas entrance she'd tied closed behind her somewhat hesitantly. Even though he knew he was her Commander and it was fully within his station to enter the structure and help to plan strategy, he did not completely _feel _it. He _felt_ like a somewhat jilted lover, hoping for a fond reunion between them and receiving only pinched silence. She evidently hadn't wanted him to follow her (though she had to know he _would_), since she'd pulled the flap closed. But, this was part of his duty, and Cullen had never been one to shirk his duty.

"Inquisitor?" He was using his Commander voice, hoping that it would mask his nervousness.

He heard rustling and cursing from within – evidently he'd surprised her, then, "Yes?" She sounded weary and flustered.

"I was hoping we could discuss strategy for the siege." Cullen was proud to find that his tone left little room for argument; it was more order than request.

He could hear the way she bristled under his demand in her clipped, "Enter."

It took him a moment to untie the cord holding the entrance closed, then he pushed into the dim, cool space, momentarily blinded in the darkness before his eyes adjusted. The tent was lit only by a few candles on a rickety wooden table littered with scrolls, and the relentless Approach sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the canvas. Taranari was sitting cross-legged on the rug-floor, surrounded by copies of maps and reports, the scrolls held open by various objects – her daggers, her grenade satchel, a few rocks, her left boot… Cullen suppressed a smile. Her hair was fluffed up like she'd been fisting her hands in it and there was ink smudged on her hands and face – she looked a little silly, sprawled out in the floor like a child playing war.

The reminder that neither of them was playing was sobering enough to get him to sit down silently across from her.

"Leliana sent records of the keep's construction," she began, voice and face tight, pointing to one of the scrolls closest to him. "I marked the choke points we can use to limit their forces." Examining the diagram, Cullen saw she'd circled several places, and he nodded approvingly.

"We'll send our foot soldiers in first to break their main defenses, so you can get inside—"

"While the trebuchets hit the side of the keep from the rise to the east?"

The right side of Cullen's mouth pulled upwards. "Precisely. Once the siege is well underway, I'll signal those soldiers to move down as reinforcements for the main force. But _you _will hopefully have already stopped Clarel by that—"

"And we'll likely have some deserters from the Warden ranks as well," she pointed out. She seemed intensely focused on the coming battle, and completely unaware of how bewitching she was being. Cullen was disarmed by this new, battle-ready tactician side of her; he couldn't stop staring and was worried she'd notice.

Thankfully, she was making it a point _not _to look at him. He wondered if it was focus or distress that caused her clear avoidance and hurry to finish with their meeting. He couldn't remember seeing her so edgy before battle, though the stakes were rarely this high.

"Yes," he agreed after a long pause, attempting not to stare as she sunk her teeth thoughtfully into the flesh of her bottom lip. He tried, and failed, not to imagine what that lip would taste like, or how it would feel to bite it for her. It made him weak, and he had to shake himself a little, disguising it by pretending to search for another report to go over.

She pushed a scroll towards him with her foot, not looking up from the reports in her hands as she said, "These are the notes Scout Harding's team made on their last mission to Adamant. Apparently, the Wardens are fortifying the battlements – expecting us."

"I can't say I'm particularly surprised," he commented blandly, taking the offered report and skimming it the way he'd learned to when he adjusted to the role of Inquisition's Commander. He missed when he had the time to _properly _read things – being a Templar had been slightly less eventful in the paperwork department.

They carried on like that in tense silence for another half hour, poring over all of the information at their disposal and editing various aspects of the original battle plan, until finally, Taranari tossed the last of the reports to the side, huffing. "I need to tell you something," she announced, decidedly meeting his eyes.

"Yes?" he wondered if the question sounded as strained as he felt. He hoped it didn't.

The elven Inquisitor sighed, clenching her fists in frustration. "They have… Four days ago Hawke, Varric, and Stroud went to scout out the fortress and they never came back," she said in a rush. Cullen bit down on his tongue to keep from exclaiming his shock. He had noticed Hawke's absence when he arrived, but had assumed she was in one of the tents or off with Varric; he'd never dreamed… "I fear the Wardens may have captured them as hostages, though we found no signs of a fight…"

There seemed to be more she wanted to say, and Cullen could guess from her guilty expression what it was. "You think Stroud may have betrayed us."

She nodded, mouth pursing. "He gave me a bad feeling from the start, and he wasn't making much of an effort to stay hidden from the Wardens. I saw his camp. And it's just _too _coincidental that we arrived right as they were having their sacrificial ritual in that tower. It's got to be a set-up."

Cullen ducked his head, mulling over the new information. _This _was why she looked so weary and strained. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" The question held very little accusation, but she still flushed like she'd been slapped.

"I didn't want to alarm the sol—"

"We've been in here, _alone_, for almost an hour." He wasn't sure why the emphasis he put on "alone" made her face turn an even deeper red.

"We can't factor them into our strategy anyway. We can't surrender, even if they threaten to kill them. Though, I doubt the Wardens will kill them until I get inside because that's only card they'll have to play." She was dancing around the real reason; Cullen could see it in her expression, a mix of shame and worry.

"But what if it's a trap?"

"It most likely _is _a trap, though we must lay siege either way, and I'm not disillusioned enough to think they don't know we're coming."

"Still, you didn't think that was _important _for me to know?"

She ground her teeth for a moment before answering. "I did."

"Then, wha—"

"I wanted to spare you!" she blurted, bitterness cutting through the calm, calculating tone she'd been using earlier.

He recoiled a bit. "Spare me?"

"They…" She met his eyes, the weight in hers unbearably heavy. "There's a good chance they'll be killed if we attack. I assume that's the threat I'm meant to interpret in their disappearance, and I… I wanted to spare you the decision to proceed anyway."

He made a strangled sound, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You… I…" The words that he wanted to say were wrong, he knew. Words that he couldn't even fully form, and were not even close to the proper response in this situation, no matter how acutely he felt them.

She gave him a moment to collect himself by adding, "But as Commander, you needed to know in case it impacted the battle. I'm sorry." Sorry for adding to _his _burden when she carried the weight of the world. Sorry for not being able to protect him from more death, when he was supposed to be the one protecting her. Sorry for not being able to keep the eminent death of two people she considered _friends _to herself.

He rose to his knees, leaning across the pile of scrolls between them and cupping her face boldly in his hand, the other on her shoulder to steady himself as he loomed over her. "Do not treat me as if I'm too weak to share your burdens, Inquisitor. It does me discredit," he ordered, eyes transfixed on hers.

She blinked furiously, like someone trying to regain their focus. "I wasn't—" His thumb sliding across her lips stopped her, and he suppressed a shudder at the way the soft skin there pulled and bounced against the rough pad of his finger. He didn't think he was deluding himself that he heard her breathing hitch in her throat.

"We will save them. You have to believe that," he commanded, earning an entranced sort of nod from her. "Leave me to worry about the odds."

It wasn't the time to kiss her. They were about to lay siege to a Grey Warden keep, and possibly doom two comrades in the process. _It was not the time to kiss her._

But he wanted to. His dangerous longing for her only multiplied as time went on, and it was becoming harder and harder to maintain a respectful distance, especially since she no longer seemed to want him to. How far they'd come from the days where she'd looked up at him with fear in her eyes… This line of thinking, of course, only made him doubt himself again – just enough to tear away from her and stand.

"Ready yourself for the battle. We will not fail." He said in parting, his command voice a little more breathless than usual. He tried very hard not to smirk when he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

* * *

Unlike many of the warriors who fought beside her, Tara did not feel completely comfortable on a battlefield. She'd never even experienced one firsthand before the day Cassandra dragged her up to the Breach, and her training (what little she'd had from the Dalish and picked up on the street) was never suited to brawling. She was more of a duelist, slipping through defenses and jabbing her knives in – quick, clean, efficient. She liked that about her fighting style, it suited her; the downside was that her build and lighter armor meant that she could take very few brute force attacks before going down, which made her evasive tactics all the more important.

Adamant was certainly not making that easy on her.

The whole keep was a mess of crazed Wardens and demons, running so thick through the corridors and on the battlements that every encounter began as a shoving match and only progressed past that once Dorian figured out that if he iced the ground under the enemies, they generally fell down easily. Blackwall and Cassandra's shields were also useful, as they could use them as battering rams to break up enemies so Tara and Cole could come between them and start picking them off. But more than once, the demons and Wardens had closed ranks around the two rogues, forcing them to fight back-to-back until they could make an opening in the circle – a risky situation at best.

Tara wished several times that Iron Bull was with her – their team's _literal _battering ram for enemies, but she'd sent him up to the battlements with the Chargers to assist their soldiers where resistance was thickest. Cullen had brought all of her people from Skyhold for the siege, though they'd been reassigned where necessary. Sera was not built for combat like this either, so she was sent to a clear section of the battlements with Vivienne to pick off Wardens inside the keep from their own walls. If there hadn't been so many demons, she'd have sent Cole off as well to scout out where their friends were being held, since he could make the Wardens forget they'd seen him. Unfortunately, the trick didn't work on other spirits.

"Cassandra!" Tara shouted when a trio of despair demons appeared around the corner, rushing her head-on.

"I see them, Inquisitor!" the woman replied, baring her sword and brandishing it in a clear _come on _gesture, earning her an answering chorus of shrieks.

Cole stiffened beside Tara, his head lowering so that his hat hid his face. "Dark, cold, alone, don't want to be here. Where am I? Cold, _cold. _It said it would be warmer here. It said—"

"Cole," she interrupted, motioning with a dagger that now wasn't the time to try to understand the demons. He seemed to snap out of it, nodding before following to join Dorian, Solas, and Blackwall, who were already rushing to Cassandra's aid. Tara took a moment to dig a fire flask out of her grenade satchel before joining them.

_Jab. Slash. Spin. Jump. Stab. Duck. Kick. Try not to breathe through your nose. Dodge right. Stab. Spin. Stab. _She kept a list of instructions playing in her mind, making her body an instrument to be controlled by disconnected commands. When things got a little too horrific to handle, that was how she preferred to fight.

The bodies littering the corridors, some piled into forgotten wheelbarrows as if they were being carted off for burial before the attack, burned in Tara's mind. Demons had _always _been difficult (they were _demons _after all), but in these numbers, wreaking as they did of death and betrayal, freshly risen from deluded Wardens attempting to do their duty, they were worse. And the metallic, coppery tang of blood was growing overwhelmingly strong as they worked their way farther in, filling Tara's nose and clouding her mind with images of the dead and fears that any one of her companions may soon join them.

* * *

"Warden Commander Clarel!" Taranari cried, rushing through the group of Wardens that parted at her entrance to the innermost courtyard of the keep. Proof of the veil's weakness was clear in the shuddering green light dancing in the chamber's center, and Blackwall caught Taranari wince slightly as her palm crackled in response. He felt his scowl slide into place, watching her stalk towards the dais where a bald woman in battlemage armor had turned at her entrance, presumably the Warden Commander. Beside her was another mage, greasy haired with a foul sneer and symbol of the Tevinter Imperium hanging from his neck, the man from the Ritual Tower – Livius Erimond.

Behind the pair sat three bound and hooded figures, struggling relentlessly against the ropes that tied them despite the brutal kicks they frequently received from the magister. Blackwall had no doubt that those were Hawke, Stroud, and Varric, and from the way Taranari's expression sharpened dangerously when she spotted them, she didn't either.

"I wouldn't come any closer, Inquisitor," the Warden Commander warned, smiling the sad smile of hollow victory. Blackwall noticed how she held the long, curved dagger in her hand like a threat, and his ire began to rise. It was disturbing enough when they'd discovered the Wardens were sacrificing each other for this mad assault on the old gods, but taking unwilling outsiders as well? That was just further insult to the stain they were placing on their reputations, their ideals.

"You're ripping a hole in the very fabric of our world, don't you see that?" Taranari shouted, striding towards the dais with slow, purposeful steps, and motioning towards the crackling green energy in the center of the Warden's summoning circle.

Clarel followed her gesture with pained eyes, a knowing set to her frown. "We do what we must to save the world from Blight."

Blackwall's fists clenched at his sides; this was not what he'd expected of the Wardens, not at all. They were supposed to be heroes, not these desperate, hollow suits of armor, with old glory in their eyes, unwilling to see what they'd become.

"But if you do this, you'll damn the world to the rule of a darkspawn. Corypheus is _alive_, Clarel, and he's using you!" Taranari cried.

Clarel flinched at the Inquisitor's words like they'd struck her, and turned uncertain eyes to the magister beside her. "That is what Stroud said, and I didn't believe him, but _she—_"

"Don't let her make you doubt yourself, Clarel," Livius crooned, stepping forward to block the Commander's view of their elven leader. "They can't understand, can't honor the sacrifices you've made for the greater good." His voice rose to a bellow. "The Inquisition dishonors every Warden here! They spit on your duty!" The answering cry of agreement from what was left of the Warden ranks furrowed deeper creases in Blackwall's brow; he felt he should _do _something, stand up for his Inquisitor, but what if they recognized him as a fake? He couldn't draw that kind of attention to himself, could he?

"_Enough!_" Taranari shouted, slicing a dagger through the air for emphasis, and turning to the Warriors, the slim few that hadn't been used to bind demons yet. "Do you not wonder why your mage brethren seem entranced, enslaved after the ritual's completion? They are bound to Livius, to _Corypheus! _I have seen his plans and he intends to march a demon army through Orlais! _This _demon army! He is an _original _darkspawn, intent on reentering the Fade bodily and claiming the Golden City he first blackened. The Inquisition is the _only _force standing against him, and I would not stand against you now unless I _knew _you were doing his bidding!"

Her speech seemed to stir something in the remaining Wardens, because they turned their confused and fearful eyes to their leader, who looked at a loss for words, though she did take a step away from the magister. "But… the Calling… the Old Gods…" She struggled to reconcile this new information with all of the chaos and death she'd introduced to her Order for a false cause. Blackwall studied the hard lines and scars that made up her rigid face, and found them an odd contrast to the terror and shame in her wide eyes.

Seeing her hesitation, Livius was already moving towards their trio of hostages, a dagger of his own slipping from a sleeve, ready for the kill.

The choked cry echoed from all of them, the entire party, disparately and all at once.

Taranari, thankfully trapped in her Inquisitor mask or she might've screamed like a shrill child, bellowed, "CLAREL!" just as Cassandra cried, "You wouldn't dare!" with all the might of belief behind her. Solas' furious, sincere, but more subdued response was drowned out by the other two, but Blackwall felt the magic behind it, the attack aimed for Livius' back. Cole's, "Varric," was more hopeful than fearful, a solemn echo after the two women's outbursts. Simultaneously, Dorian's reaction was wordless and sharp, also accompanied by a stab of mana that would hit too late. The last reaction was Blackwall's, a hushed, weary, "Stop him," his mind reaching for the sole solution, the one Taranari had already reached – Clarel was the only one who could save their friends.

But in the second-long eternity in which the knife reached for the closest neck in the line, Blackwall wasn't optimistic. The Warden Commander looked far too beleaguered and confused to make a move that decisive.

He was right. She stood and watched in abject horror as the sneering magister's blade swung in a sickening arc, coming down to spill the blood required to finish the ritual. But by the time it reached its target, the neck in question was no longer there.

Blackwall frequently forgot how fast Varric could be when he wanted; his stubby legs and barrel shaped frame made him a rather unlikely rogue, but someone had obviously trained him to use them well because, in a pinch, the dwarf was like silent lightning. Blackwall barely even caught the transition – suddenly, he was just standing at Livius' right shoulder, pulling the hood off to reveal his face with one hand, the other pressing a dagger, one of Cole's daggers, Blackwall thought, to the magister's neck. Hawke and Stroud were quick to follow Varric's lead, standing and ripping off the burlap sacks that masked their faces, as Livius cringed from the dwarf's weapon.

"_How?" _he spit at them, earning a grim smile from Varric.

Blackwall didn't hear the dwarf's answer over Taranari, who had turned to Cole, saying, "You didn't tell me you did that."

"You didn't ask," the boy replied in his normal, cryptic manner. Blackwall gathered that Cole had used his "forget the spirit" trick to sneak up and untie their comrades and leave Varric his dagger.

"Still, you knew it was something I would've liked to know," she groused back.

Cole only nodded thoughtfully, moving to approach the dais, just as Clarel _finally _made her decision.

Snatching the back of Livius' robe, the bald Warden Commander, shouted, "Liar!" with a finality that seemed to set her remaining fellows at ease, as they stopped muttering duplicitously amongst themselves. At least they knew what side they were standing on now, and it no longer seemed as crazy as it had a moment ago. At least they had a definitive truth to rally behind, one that didn't call them to be sacrificed.

Varric looked thoroughly put-out at having the man who'd just tried to kill him yanked from beneath his dagger, but he watched Clarel expectantly, apparently awaiting the execution she should provide. Instead, she flung the sniveling magister to the stone floor, shouting, "Get up and face us, coward!"

Blackwall could've dropped his head into his hands. _This _was a great Grey Warden Commander? The kind of woman who let her enemy, a proven snake, raise his weapon to her again?

He imagined he could hear Taranari's teeth gritting as her shoulders stiffened with similar disapproval, though she restrained herself from shouting, and perhaps then knifing, them both down.

A mistake on both sides.


End file.
